The Shoemaker's Holiday, or The Gentle Craft · chunk 1 of 38
Dekker, Thomas · published 1600 · first performed or written 1599 [Jul 15, payment] (Annals) comedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T22 Shepherds, flocks and Pan · 539 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T22: shepherd, pan, shepherds, love, sheep, flocks, fair, shepherdess, swain, away.
O the month of Maie, the merry month of Maie, So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green: O and then did I, unto my true love say, Swate Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen. NOw the Nightingale, the pretty Nightingale, The sweetest singer in all the forests quire: entreats thee sweet Peggie, to hear thy true loves tale, Lo, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier. But O I spy the Cuckoo, the Cuckoo, the Cuckoo, See where she sitteth, come away my joy: Come away I prithee, I do not like the Cuckoo Should sing where my Peggie and I kiss and toy. O the month of Maie, the merry month of Maie, So frolic, so gay, and so green, so green, so green: And then did I, unto my true love say, Sweet Peg, thou shalt be my Summer's Queen. COld's the wind, and wet's the rain, Saint Hugh be our good speed: Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, Nor helps good hearts in need. troll the bowl, the jolly nutbrown bowl, And here kind mate to thee: Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hugh's soul, And down it merrily. Down a down, heigh down a down, heigh derie derie down a down, Close with the tenor boy: Ho well done, to me let come, King compass gentle joy. troll the bowl, the nutbrown bowl, And here kind etc. as often as there be men to drink. At last when all have drunk, this verse. Cold's the wind, and wet's the rain, Saint Hugh be our good speed: Ill is the weather that bringeth no gain, Nor helps good hearts in need. AS wretches in a storm (expecting day) With trembling hands and eyes cast up to heaven, Make Prayers the anchor of their conquered hopes, So we (dear Goddess) wonder of all eyes, Your meanest vassals (through mistrust and fear, To uncke into the bottom of disgrace, By our imperfect pastimes) prostrate thus On bended knees, our sails of hope do strike, Dreading the bitter storms of your dislike. Since then (unhappy men) our hap is such, That to ourselves ourselves no help can bring, But needs must perish, if your saintlike cares (Locking the temple where all mercy sits) Refuse the tribute of our begging tongues. Oh grant (bright mirror of true Chastity) From those life-breathing stars your sunlike eyes, One gracious smile: for your celestial breath Must send us life, or sentence us to death. MY Lord Maior, you have sundry times Feasted myself, and many Courtiers more, Seldom, or never can we be so kind, To make requital of your courtesy: But leaving this, I hear my cozen Lacie Is much affected to your daughter Rose. True my good Lord, and she loves him so well, That I mislike her boldness in the chase. Why my lord Maior, think you it then a shame, To join a Lacie with an Oteley's name? Too mean is my poor girl for his high birth, Poor Citizens must not with Courtiers wed, Who will in silks, and gay apparel spend More in one year, than I am worth by far, Therefore your honour need not doubt my girl.
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)
O the month of Maie, the merrie month of Maie, So frolicke, so gay, and so gréene, so gréene, so gréene: O and then did I, unto my true loue say, Swate Peg, thou shalt be my Summers Quéene. NOw the Nightingale, the prettie Nightingale, The sweetest singer in all the Forrests quier: Intreates thée swéete Peggie, to heare thy true loues tale, Loe, yonder she sitteth, her breast against a brier. But O I spie the Cuckoo, the Cuckoo, the Cuckoo, Sée where she sitteth, come away my ioy: Come away I prithee, I do not like the Cuckoo Should sing where my Peggie and I kisse and toy. O the month of Maie, the merrie month of Maie, So frolike, so gay, and so gréene, so gréene, so gréene: And then did I, unto my true loue say, Swéete Peg, thou shalt be my Summers Quéene. COld's the wind, and wet's the raine, Saint Hugh be our good spéede: Ill is the weather that bringeth no gaine, Nor helpes good hearts in néede. Trowle the boll, the iolly Nut-browne boll, And here kind mate to thée: Let's sing a dirge for Saint Hughes soule, And downe it merrily. Downe a downe, hey downe a downe, Hey derie derie down a down, Close with the tenor boy: Ho well done, to me let come, King compasse gentle ioy. Trowle the boll, the Nut-browne boll, And here kind &c as often as there be men to drinke. At last when all haue drunke, this verse. Cold's the wind, and wet's the raine, Saint Hugh be our good spéede: Ill is the weather that bringeth no gaine, Nor helpes good hearts in neede. AS wretrhes in a storme (expecting day) With trembling hands and eyes cast vp to heauen, Make Prayers the anchor of their conquerd hopes, So we (deere Goddesse) wonder of all eyes, Your meanest bassalls (through mistrust and feare, To uncke into the bottome of disgrace, By our impersit pastimes) prostrate thus On bended knees, our sailes of hope do strike, Dreading the bitter stormes of your dislike. Since then (vnhappy men) our hap is such, That to our selues our selues no help can bring, But néedes must perish, if your saint-like cares (Locking the temple where all mercy sits) Refuse the tribute of our begging tongues. Oh graunt (bright mirror of true Chastitie) From those life-breathing starres your sun-like eyes, One gratious smile: for your celestiall breath Must send vs life, or sentence vs to death. MY Lord Maior, you haue sundrie times Feasted my selfe, and many Courtiers more, Seldome, or neuer can we be so kind, To make requitall of your curtesie: But leauing this, I heare my cosen Lacie Is much affected to your daughter Rose. True my good Lord, and she loues him so wel, That I mislike her boldnesse in the chace. Why my lord Maior, think you it then a shame, To ioyne a Lacie with an Otleys name? Too meane is my poore girle for his high birth, Poore Cittizens must not with Courtiers wed, Who will in silkes, and gay apparrell spend More in one yeare, then I am worth by farre, Therefore your honour néede not doubt my girle.