The Sad Shepherd, or A Tale of Robin Hood · chunk 13 of 19
Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1637 [c.1612-1637] (Annals) not in BritDrama unassigned nearest T51 Parents and children: blessing, birthrig · 485 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T51: esau, iacob, father, son, isaac, god, love, birthright, parents, thing.
Done my Commands, dull groom? Fetch it again Or kennel with the hounds. Are these the Arts Robin, you read your rude ones o' the wood, To countenance your quarrels, and mistake? Or are the sports to entertain your friends Those form jealousies? Ask of Mellifleur, If I were ever from her, here, or Amie, Since I came in with them; or saw this Scathlock, Since I related to you his tale, o' the Raven? I, say you so? She never left my side Since I came in, here, nor I hers. This's strange! Our best of Senses were deceived, our eyes, than! And ears too. What you have concluded on, Make good I pray you. O' my heart, my heart! My heart it is, is wounded pretty Amie; Report not you your griefs: I'll tell for all. Some body is to blame, there is a fault. Try if you can take rest. A little slumber Will much refresh you (Amie). What's her grief? She does not know: and therein she is happy. Here's Mother Maudlin come to give you thanks, Madam, for some late gift, she hath received— Which she's not worthy of, she says, but cracks, And wonders of it; hops about the house; Transported with the joy. Sand me a Stag! A whole Stag, Madam! and so fat a Deer! So fairly hunted, and at such a time too! When all your friends were here! Do you mark this, Clarion? Her own acknowledgement? 'Twas such a bounty And honour done to your poor Bedes-woman, I know not how to own it, but to thank you. And that I come to du: I shall go round, And giddy with the toy of the good turn. Look out, look out, gay folk about, And see me spin; the ring I am in Of mirth, & glee, with thanks for fee The heart puts on, for th' Venison My Lady sent, which shall be spent In draughts of Wine, to fume up fine Into the brain, and down again Fall in a Swoon, upo' thee grown. Look to her, she is mad. My Son hath sent you A pot of Strawberries, gathered i' the wood (His Hogs would else have rooted up, or trod) With a choice dish of wildings here, to scald And mingle with your Cream. Thank you good Maudlin, And thank your Son. Go, bear 'em into Much Th' Acater, let him thank her. Surely, Mother You were mistaken, or my Woodmen more, Or most myself, to sand you all our store Of Venison, hunted for ourselves, this day! You will not take it, Mother, I dare say, If wee'lld entreat you; when you know our guests: Read Deer is head still of the forest feasts. But I knaw ye, a right freehearted Lady, Can spare it out of superfluity: I have departed it 'mong my poor Neighbours To speak your Largesse.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Done my Commaunds, dull groome? Fetch it againe Or kennel with the hounds. Are theſe the Arts Robin, you read your rude ones o' the wood, To countenance your quarrells, and miſtakings? Or are the ſports to entertaine your friends Thoſe formed jealouſies? Aske of Mellifleur, If I were ever from her, here, or Amie, Since I came in with them; or ſaw this Scathlock, Since I related to you his tale, o' the Raven? I, ſay you ſo? Shee never left my ſide Since I came in, here, nor I hers. This's ſtrange! Our beſt of Senſes were deceiv'd, our eyes, then! And eares too. What you have concluded on, Make good I pray you. O' my heart, my heart! My heart it is, is wounded prettie Amie; Report not you your greifes: I'll tell for all. Some body is to blame, there is a fault. Try if you can take reſt. A little ſlumber Will much refreſh you (Amie). What's her greif? Shee does not know: and therein ſhee is happie. Here's Mother Maudlin come to give you thanks, Madam, for ſome late guift, ſhee hath receiv'd— Which ſhee's not worthie of, ſhee ſaies, but crakes, And wonders of it; hoppes about the houſe; Tranſported with the joy. Send mee a Stagge! A whole Stagge, Madam! and ſo fat a Deere! So fairelie hunted, and at ſuch a time too! When all your freinds were here! Do you mark this, Clarion? Her owne acknowledgement? 'Twas ſuch a bountie And honour done to your poore Bedeſ-woman, I know not how to owe it, but to thanke you. And that I come to du: I ſhall goe round, And giddie with the toy of the good turne. Looke out, looke out, gay folke about, And ſee mee ſpin; the ring I' am in Of mirth, & glee, with thanks for fee The heart putts on, for th' Veniſon My Lady ſent, which ſhall be ſpent In draughts of Wine, to fume up fine Into the braine, and downe againe Fall in a Swoune, upo' the growne. Look to her, ſhee is mad. My Son hath ſent you A pott of Strawberries, gather'd i' the wood (His Hoggs would els have rooted up, or trod) With a choice diſh of wildings here, to ſcald And mingle with your Creame. Thank you good Maudlin, And thanke your Sonne. Go, beare 'hem into Much Th' Acater, let him thanke her. Surelie, Mother You were miſtaken, or my Woodmen more, Or moſt my ſelfe, to ſend you all our ſtore Of Veniſon, hunted for our ſelves, this day! You will not take it, Mother, I dare ſay, If wee'lld intreat you; whan you know our gheſts: Red Deere is head ſtill of the forreſt feaſts. But I knaw yee, a right free-hearted Ladie, Can ſpare it out of ſuperfluitie: I have departit it 'mong my poore Neighbours To ſpeake your Largeſſe.