Il Pastor Fido, or The Faithful Shepherd · chunk 12 of 71
Dymoke, Tailboys / Guarini, Giovanni Battista · published 1602 · first performed or written 1601 (Annals) pastoral unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
How ever love be in his nature good, With them his goodness suddenly he loseth. They never suffer him to touch their hearts, But in their faces only build his bower. Their care, their pomp, and all their whole delight. Is in the bark of a bepainted face. 'tis not in them now faith with faith to grace, And to contend in love with him that loves, Into two breasts dividing but one will: Now all their labour is, with burnished gold To die their hair, and tie it up in curls, Therein to snare unwary lovers in. O what a stinking thing it is, to see them take A Pencil up, and paint their bloodless cheeks: Hiding the faults of nature and of time, Making the pale to blush, the wrinkled plain, The black seem white, faults mending with far worse. Then with a pair of pincers do they pull Their eyebrows till they smart again. But this is nothing, though it be too much, For all their customs are alike to these. What is it that they use, which is not counterfeit? Open they their mouths? they lie: move they their eyes? They counterfeit their looks: If so they sigh, Their sighs dissembled are. In sum, each act, Each look, each gesture, is a very lie. Nor is this yet the worst. 'tis their delight, Them to deceive e'en most, that trust them most; And love them least, that are most worthy love. True faith to hate, worser than death itself: These be the tricks that make love so perverse. Then is the fault faithless Corisca thine? Or rather mine, that have believed thee so? How many troubles have I for thy sake sustained? I now repent, nay more I am ashamed. lovers believe me, women once adored, Are worser than the griefly powers of hell. Straight by their valour vaunt they that they are The same you by your folly fashion them. Let go these base● sighs, prayers and plaints, Fit weapons for women and children only. Once did I think that prayers, plaints, and sighs, Might in a woman's heart have stirred up The flames of love, but rush I was deceived. Then if thou wouldst thy mistress conquer, leave These silly toys, and close thou up all love. Do that which love and nature teacheth thee, For modesty is but the outward virtue of A woman's face. Wherefore to handle her with modesty, Is a mere fault, she though she use it, loves it not. A tender-hearted Lover shalt thou not Corisca ever find me more, but like a man I will assail and pierce thee through and through. Twice have I taken thee, and twice again Thou hast escaped (I know not how) my hands: But if thou com'st the third time in my reach, I'll fetter thee for running then away. T'hart wont to pass these woods, I like a hound Will hunt thee out. Oh what a sweet revenge I mean to take: I mean to make thee prove What 'tis unjustly to betray thy love.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
How euer loue be in his nature good, With them his goodneſſe ſuddenly he leeſeth. They neuer ſuffer him to touch their hearts, But in their faces onely build his bowre. Their care, their pompe, and all their whole delight. Is in the barke of a bepainted face. T'is not in them now faith with faith to grace, And to contend in loue with him that loues, Into two breaſts diuiding but one will: Now all their labour is, with burniſh'd gold To die their haire, and tye it vp in curles, Therein to ſnare vnwary louers in. O what a ſtinking thing it is, to ſee them take A Pencill vp, and paint their bloudleſſe cheekes: Hiding the faults of nature and of time, Making the pale to bluſh, the wrinkled plaine, The blacke ſeeme white, faults mending with farre worſe. Then with a paire of pincers do they pull Their eye-browes till they ſmart againe. But this is nothing, though it be too much, For all their cuſtomes are alike to theſe. What is it that they vſe, which is not counterfeit? Ope they their mouthes? they lie: mooue they their eyes? They counterfeit their lookes: If ſo they ſigh, Their ſighes diſſembled are. In ſumme, each act, Each looke, each geſture, is a verie lie. Nor is this yet the worſt. T'is their delight, Them to deceiue eu'n moſt, that truſt them moſt; And loue them leaſt, that are moſt worthy loue. True faith to hate, worſer then death it ſelfe: Theſe be the trickes that make loue ſo peruerſe. Then is the fault faithleſſe Coriſca thine? Or rather mine, that haue beleeu'd thee ſo? How many troubles haue I for thy ſake ſuſtaind? I now repent, nay more I am aſhamed. Louers beleeue me, women once ador'd, Are worſer then the griefly powers of hell. Strait by their valure vaunt they that they are The ſame you by your folly faſhion them. Let go theſe baſe ſighes, praiers and plaints, Fit weapons for women and children onely. Once did I thinke that praiers, plaints, and ſighes, Might in a womans heart haue ſtirred vp The flames of loue, but ruſh I was deceiu'd. Then if thou wouldſt thy miſtreſſe conquer, leaue Theſe ſilly toyes, and cloſe thou vp all loue. Do that which loue and nature teacheth thee, For modeſtie is but the outward vertue of A womans face. Wherefore to handle her with modeſtie, Is a meere fault, ſhe though ſhe vſe it, loues it not. A tender-harted Louer ſhalt thou not Coriſca euer find me more, but like a man I will aſſaile and pierce thee through and through. Twiſe haue I taken thee, and twiſe againe Thou haſt eſcap'd (I know not how) my hands: But if thou com'ſt the third time in my reach, I'le fetter thee for running then away. T'hart wont to paſſe theſe woods, I like a hound Will hunt thee out. Oh what a ſweet reuenge I meane to take: I meane to make thee proue What t'is vniuſtly to betray thy Loue.