The Sad Shepherd, or A Tale of Robin Hood · chunk 12 of 19
Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1637 [c.1612-1637] (Annals) not in BritDrama T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.78 · 478 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
Not Marian; my disease is somewhat nigher. I weep, and boil away myself, in tears; And than my panting heart would dry those fears: I burn, though all the Forest lend a shade; And freeze, though the whole Wood one fire were made. Alas! I often have been torn with thorn and briar; Both in the Leg, and Foot, and somewhat higher: Yet gave not than such fearful shrieks as these. Ah! I often have been stung too, with cursed Bees, Yet not remember that I than did quit Either my Company, or Mirth for it. Ah! And therefore, what it is that I feel now, And know no cause of it, nor where, nor how, It entered in me, nor lest print can see, I feel afflicts me more, than Briar, or Bee. Oh! How often, when the Sun heavens brightest birth Hath with his burning fervour cloven the earth, Under a spreading Elm, or Oak, hard by A cool clear fountain, could I sleeping lie Safe from the heat? but now, no shady tree, Nor purling brook, can my refreshing be? Often when the meadows, were grown rough with frost, The rivers ice-bound, and their currents lost, My thick warm fleece I wore, was my defence Or large good fires, I made, drove winter thence. But now, my whole flocks fells, nor this thick grove, Inflamed to ashes, can my cold remove. It is a cold, and heat, that doth out go All sense of Winters, and of Summers so. O, are you here, my Mistress? I my Love! Where should I be, but in my Robin's arms? The Sphere which I delight in, so to move? What the rude Ranger? and spied Spy? hand of: You are for no such rustics. What means this, Thrice worthy Clarion? or wise Alken? know ye? Alas no, not they! a poor starved Muttons carcase Would better fit their palat's, than your Venison. What riddle is this! unfold yourself, dear Robin. You ha' not sent your Venison hence by Scathlock, To Mother Maudlin? I to Mother Maudlin? Will Scathlock say so? Nay, we will all swear so. For all did hear it, when you gave the charge so. Both Clarion, Alken, Lionel, myself. Good honest Shep'ards, Masters of your flocks, Simple, and virtuous men, no others hirelings; Be not you made to speak against your Conscience, That which may soil the truth. I sand the Venison Away? by Scathlock? and to mother Maudlin? I came to show it here, to Mellifleur, I do confess; but Amies falling ill, Did put us of it: Since we employed ourselves In comforting of her. O, here he is! Did I, Sir, bid you bear away the Venison, To mother Maudlin? I good faith, Madam, Did you, and I ha' done it. What ha' you done? Obeyed your hests, Madam; done your Commands.
nodes 695–757 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 12 of 19 in this edition
Length
478 words · 683 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.776 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T3 · seed 44: T4 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
No Marian; my diſeaſe is ſomewhat nigher. I weep, and boile away my Selfe, in teares; And then my panting heart would dry thoſe feares: I burne, though all the Forreſt lend a ſhade; And freize, though the whole Wood one fire were made. Alas! I often have been torne with thorne and briar; Both in the Leg, and Foot, and ſomewhat higher: Yet gave not then ſuch fearfull ſhreikes as theſe. Ah! I often have been ſtung too, with curſt Bees, Yet not remember that I then did quit Either my Companie, or Mirth for it. Ah! And therefore, what it is that I feele now, And know no cauſe of it, nor where, nor how, It entred in mee, nor leaſt print can ſee, I feele afflicts mee more, then Briar, or Bee. Oh! How often, when the Sun heavens brighteſt birth Hath with his burning fervour cleft the earth, Under a ſpreading Elme, or Oake, hard by A coole cleare fountaine, could I ſleeping lie Safe from the heate? but now, no ſhadie tree, Nor purling brook, can my refreſhing bee? Oft when the medowes, were growne rough with froſt, The rivers ice-bound, and their currents loſt, My thick warme fleece I wore, was my defence Or large good fires, I made, drave winter thence. But now, my whole flocks fells, nor this thick grove, Enflam'd to aſhes, can my cold remove. It is a cold, and heat, that doth out goe All ſenſe of Winters, and of Summers ſo. O', are you here, my Miſtreſſe? I my Love! Where ſhould I be, but in my Robins armes? The Sphere which I delight in, ſo to move? What the rude Ranger? and ſpied Spie? hand off: You are for no ſuch ruſticks. What meanes this, Thrice worthy Clarion? or wiſe Alken? know yee? 'Las no, not they! a poore ſterv'd Muttons carkaſſe Would better fit their palat's, then your Veniſon. What riddle is this! unfold your ſelfe, deare Robin. You ha' not ſent your Veniſon hence by Scathlock, To Mother Maudlin? I to Mother Maudlin? Will Scathlock ſay ſo? Nay, wee will all ſweare ſo. For all did heare it, when you gave the charge ſo. Both Clarion, Alken, Lionel, my ſelfe. Good honeſt Shep'ards, Maſters of your flocks, Simple, and vertuous men, no others hirelings; Be not you made to ſpeake againſt your Conſcience, That which may ſoile the truth. I ſend the Veniſon Away? by Scathlock? and to mother Maudlin? I came to ſhew it here, to Mellifleur, I doe confeſſe; but Amies falling ill, Did put us of it: Since wee imploied our ſelves In comforting of her. O', here he is! Did I, Sir, bid you beare away the Veniſon, To mother Maudlin? I gud faith, Madam, Did you, and I ha' done it. What ha' you done? Obey'd your heſts, Madam; done your Commaunds.