The Sad Shepherd, or A Tale of Robin Hood · chunk 16 of 19
Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1637 [c.1612-1637] (Annals) not in BritDrama unassigned nearest T56 Magic, spells and conjuring · 479 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T56: magic, faustus, charms, charm, conjure, spirits, skill, ho, power, spells.
Rare sport I swear! this hunting of the Witch Will make us. Let's advice upon't, like huntsmen. And we can spy her once, she is our own. First, think which way she formeth, on what wind: Or North, or South. For, as the Shep'ard said, A Witch is a kind of Hare. And marks the weather, As the hare does. Where shall we hope to found her? I have asked leave to assist you, jolly huntsmen, If an old Shep'herd may be heard among you; Not jeered or laughed at. Father, you will see Robin-hoods household, know more Courtesy. Who scorns at eld, peeles of his own young hairs. Ye say right well. Know ye the Witches Dell? Not more than I do know the walks of Hell. Within a gloomy dimble, she doth devil Down in a pit, o'ergrown with brakes and briers. Close by the ruins of a shaken Abbey Torn, with an Earthquake, down unto the ground, 'Mongst graves, and grotts, near an old Charnel house, Where you shall found her sitting in her form, As fearful, and melancholic, as that She is about; with Caterpillars kells, And knotty Cobwebs, rounded in with spells; Thence she steals forth to relief, in the fogs, And rotten Mists, upon the fens, and bogs, Down to the drowned Lands of Lincolnshire; To make Ewes cast their Lambs! Swine eat their Farrow! The Housewifes' Tun not work! Nor the Milk churn! Writhe Childrens wrists! and suck their breath in sleep! Get Vials of their blood! And where the Sea Casts up his slimy Owze, search for a weed To open locks with, and to rivet Charms, Planted about her, in the wicked feat, Of all her mischiefs, which are manifold. I wonder such a story could be told, Of her dire deeds. I thought a Witches banks Had enclosed nothing, but the merry pranks Of some old woman. Yes, her malice more! As it would quickly appear, had we the Store Of his Collects. I, this good learned Man Can speak her right. He knows, her shifts, and haunts! And all her wiles, and turns. The venomed Plants Wherewith she kill's! where the sad Mandrake grows, Whose groans are deathful! the dead-numming Nightshade! The stupifying Hemlock! Adder's tongue! And Martagan! the shrieks of luckless Owls, We hear! and croaking Night-crows in the air! Greene-bellied Snakes! blew fire-drakes in the sky! And giddy Flitter-mices, with leather wings! The scaly Beetles, with their habergeons, That make a humming Murmur as they fly! There, in the stocks of trees, white Fays do devil, And spanlong Elves, that dance about a pool! With each a little Changeling, in their arms! The airy spirits play with falling stars! And mount the Sphere of fire, to kiss the Moon! While, she fits reading by the Glow-worms light, Or rotten wood (o'er which the worm hath crept)
seed 43: T45 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Rare ſport I ſweare! this hunting of the Witch Will make us. Let's adviſe upon't, like huntſmen. And wee can ſpie her once, ſhee is our owne. Firſt, think which way ſhee fourmeth, on what wind: Or North, or South. For, as the Shep'ard ſaid, A Witch is a kind of Hare. And markes the weather, As the hare does. Where ſhall wee hope to find her? I have ask'd leave to aſſiſt you, jollie huntſmen, If an old Shep'herd may be heard among you; Not jear'd or laugh'd at. Father, you will ſee Robin-hoods houſe-hold, know more Curteſie. Who ſcornes at eld, peeles of his owne young haires. Yee ſay right well. Know yee the Witches Dell? No more then I do know the walkes of Hell. Within a gloomie dimble, ſhee doth dwell Downe in a pitt, ore-growne with brakes and briars. Cloſe by the ruines of a ſhaken Abbey Torne, with an Earth-quake, down unto the ground, 'Mongſt graves, and grotts, neare an old Charnell houſe, Where you ſhall find her ſitting in her fourme, As fearfull, and melancholique, as that Shee is about; with Caterpillers kells, And knottie Cobwebs, rounded in with ſpells; Thence ſhee ſteales forth to releif, in the foggs, And rotten Miſtes, upon the fens, and boggs, Downe to the drowned Lands of Lincolneſhire; To make Ewes caſt their Lambs! Swine eate their Farrow! The Houſe-wifes Tun not worke! Nor the Milk churne! Writhe Childrens wriſts! and ſuck their breath in ſleepe! Get Vialls of their blood! And where the Sea Caſts up his ſlimie Owze, ſearch for a weed To open locks with, and to rivet Charmes, Planted about her, in the wicked feat, Of all her miſchiefes, which are manifold. I wonder ſuch a ſtorie could be told, Of her dire deeds. I thought a Witches bankes Had inclos'd nothing, but the merrie prankes Of ſome old woman. Yes, her malice more! As it would quickly appeare, had wee the Store Of his Collects. I, this gud learned Man Can ſpeake her right. He knowes, her ſhifts, and haunts! And all her wiles, and turnes. The venom'd Plants Wherewith ſhee kill's! where the ſad Mandrake growes, Whoſe grones are deathfull! the dead-numming Night-ſhade! The ſtupifying Hemlock! Adders tongue! And Martagan! the ſhreikes of luckleſſe Owles, Wee heare! and croaking Night-Crowes in the aire! Greene-bellied Snakes! blew fire-drakes in the skie! And giddie Flitter-mice, with lether wings! The ſcalie Beetles, with their habergeons, That make a humming Murmur as they flie! There, in the ſtocks of trees, white Faies doe dwell, And ſpan-long Elves, that dance about a poole! With each a little Changeling, in their armes! The airie ſpirits play with falling ſtarres! And mount the Sphere of fire, to kiſſe the Moone! While, ſhee fitts reading by the Glow-wormes light, Or rotten wood (o're which the worme hath crept)