Peele, George · published 1584 · first performed or written 1581 [c.1581-1584] (Annals) pastoral · Children of the Chapel (first) (Oxford's Boys) · before the Court T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.72 · 499 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
So fair a face, so foul a thought to harbour in his breast, Thy hope consumed, poor Nymph, thy hap is worse than all the rest. A shepherds, you been full of wiles, & whet your wits on books, And wrap poor maids with pipes and songs, and sweet alluring looks. Misspeak not all, for his amiss, there been that keepen flocks, That never chose but once, nor yet beguiled love with mocks. False Paris he is none of those, his trothless double deed, Will hurt a many shepherds else that might go nigh to speed. Poor Colin, that is ill for thee, that art as true in trust To thy sweet smart, as to his Nymph Paris hath been unjust. A well is she hath Colin won, that nill no other love: And woo is me, my luck is less, my pains no pity move. Farewell fair Nymph, sith he must heal alone that gave the wound. There grows no herb of such effect upon dame nature's ground. Here is a Nymph that sadly sits, and she belike Can tell some news, Pyracmon, of the jolly swain we seek. Dare wage my wings the lass doth love, she looks so bleak & thin, And 'tis for anger or for grief: but I will talk begin. Break out poor heart, & make complaint the mountain flocks to move, What proud repulse & thankles scorn thou hast received of love. She singeth, sires, be hushed awhile. Melponie, the muse of tragic songs, With mournful tunes in stole of dismal hue, Assist a silly Nymph to wail her woe, And leave thy lusty company behind. Thou luckless wreath, becomes not me to wear The Poplar tree for triumph of my love. Then as my joy my pride of love is left, Be thou unclothed of thy lovely green. And in thy leaves my fortune written be, And them some gentle wind let blow abroad, That all the world may see how false of love, False Paris hath to his Oenone been. Good-day fair maid, weary belike with following of your game, I wish thee cunning at thy will, to spare or strike the same. I thank you sir, my gain is quick and rids a length of ground, And yet I am deceived or else a had a deadly wound. Your hand perhaps did swerve awarie. Oen. or else it was my heart. Then sure a plied his footmanship. a played a ranging part. You should have given a deeper wound. I could not that for pity. You should haue eyd him better thē. blind love was not so witty. Why tell me sweet, are you in love. or would I were not so. Ye mean because a does ye wrong. perdie the more my woe. Why mean ye love, or him ye loved? well may I mean them both. Is love to blame? the queen of love hath made him false his troth. mean ye indeed the queen of love.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: T3 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
So faire a face, so foule a thought to harbour in his breast, Thy hope consum'd, poore Nymphe, thy hap is worse then all the rest. A sheepeherdes, you bin full of wiles, & whet your wits on bookes, And wrap poore maydes with pypes and songes, and sweete alluring lookes. Mispeake not al, for his amisse, there bin that keepen flocks, That neuer chose but once, nor yet beguiled loue with mockes. False Paris he is none of those, his trothles doble deede, Will hurte a many sheepeherds else that might go nigh to speede. Poore Colin, that is ill for thee, that art as true in trust To thy sweete smerte, as to his Nymphe Paris hath bin vniust. A well is she hath Colin wonne, that nill no other loue: And woo is me, my lucke is lsse, my paynes no pytie mooue. Farewell faire Nymphe, sith he must heale alone that gaue the wound. There growes no herbe of such efect vpon dame natures ground. Here is a Nymphe that sadlie sittes, and shee belike Can tell some newes, Pyracmon, of the illy swaine we seeke. Dare wage my winges the lasse doth loue, she lookes so bleak & thin, And tis for anger or for griefe: but I will talke beginne. Breake out poore hate, & make complaint the mountaine flocks to moue, What proude repulse & thanckles scorne thou hast receiued of loue. She singeth, nires, be husht awhile. Melponie, the muse of tragicke songes, VVith moornefull tunes in stole of dismall hue, Assist a sillie Nymphe to wayle her woe, And leaue thy lustie companie behinde. Thou luckles wreath, becomes not me to weare The Poplr tree for triumphe of my loue. Then as my ioye my pride of loue is lefte, Be thou vncloathed of thy louelie greene. And in thy leaues my fortune written bee, And them some gentle winde let blowe abroade, That all the worlde may see how false of loue, False Paris hath to his Oenone bene. Good-day fayre mayde, werie belike with following of your game, I wish thee cunning at thy will, to spare or srike the same. I thanke you sir, my gaine is quick and ids a length of grounde, And yet I am deceaued or else a had a deadlie wounde. Your hand perhaps did swarue awarie. Oen. or else it was my harte. Then sure a plyed his fotemanship. a played a raunging parte. You should haue giuen a deeper woūd. I could not that for pity. You should haue eyd him better thē. blind loue was not so witty. hy tell me sweete, are you in loue. or would I were not so. Yee meane because a doe sye wrong. perdie the more my woe. Why meane ye loue, or him ye loued? wel may I meane thē both. Is loue to blame? the queene of loue hath made him false his troth. Meae ye indeede the queene of loue.