Il Pastor Fido, or The Faithful Shepherd · chunk 30 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 · 511 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Ah Nymph that which I have already said, Is but a drop of that huge ample sea Of my complaints, if not for pity sake, Yet for your pleasure now hear (cruel) but The latest accents of a dying voice. To ease your mind and me this cumber rid, I grant to hear you, but with this condition, Speak small, part soon, and never turn again. In too too small a bundle (cruel Nymph) You do ccommaund me bind my huge desires, Which measure, but by thought nought could contain: That I you love, and love more than life, If you deny to know, ask but these woods And they will tell, and tell you with them will Their beasts, their trees & stones of these great rocks Which I so oft have tender made to melt At found of my complaints. But what make I Such proof of love where such rare beauty is? See but how many beauteous things the skies contain, How many dress the earth in brave attire: Thence shall you see the force of my desire. For as the waters fall, the fire doth rise, The air doth fly, the earth lies firmly still, And all these same the skies do compass round. e'en so to you as to their chiefest good, My soul doth fly, and my poor thoughts do run With all affection to your lovely beauties: He that from their dear object would them turn, Might fast turn from their vivall course the sky, The earth, the air, the water, and the fire. And quite remove the earth from oft his seat. But why command you me to speak but small? Small shall I tell, it I but tell you shall That I must die, and less shall dying do, If I but see what is my turn too. Ay me, what shall I do? which may outlast My miserable love? When I am dead, Yet cruel soul have pity on my pains. Ah fair! ah dear I sometime so sweet a cause Why I did live whilst my good fates were pleased. Turn hitherward those starry lights of love, Let me them see once meek and full of pity Before I die. So may my death be sweet. As they have been good guide, unto my life, So let them be unto my death, and that Sweet look which first begat my love, beget My death 〈◊〉 my loves Hesperus become The 〈◊〉 star of my decaying day. But you obdurate, never 〈...〉, Whilst I more humble you more haughty are. And can you hear me and not speak a word? Whom do I speak too wretch a marble stone? If you will say nought else, yet bid me die, And you shall see what force your words will have. Ah wicked love, this is a misery extreme, A Nymph so cruel so desirous of my death, Because I ask it as a favour, scorns to give it, Arming her cruel voice in silence so, Lest it might favour mine exceeding wo.
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)
Ah Nimph that which I haue already ſaid, Is but a drop of that huge ample ſea Of my complaints, if not for pittie ſake, Yet for your pleaſure now heare (cruell) but The lateſt accents of a dying voice. To eaſe your mind and me this cumber rid, I graunt to heare you, but with this condition, Speake ſmall, part ſoone, and neuer turne againe. In too too ſmall a bundle (cruell Nimphe) You do ccommaund me binde my huge deſires, Which meaſure, but by thought nought could containe: That I you loue, and loue more then life, If you deny to know, aske but theſe woods And they will tell, and tell you with them will Their beaſts, their trees & ſtones of theſe great rocks Which I ſo oft haue tender made to melt At found of my complaints. But what make I Such proofe of loue where ſuch rare beautie is? See but how many beauteous things the skies containe, How many dreſſe the earth in braue attire: Thence ſhall you ſee the force of my deſire. For as the waters fall, the fire doth riſe, The ayre doth fle, the earth lies firmly ſtill, And all theſe ſame the skies do compaſſe round. Eu'n ſo to you as to their chiefeſt good, My ſoule doth flie, and my poore thoughts do run With all affection to your louely beauties: He that from their deare obiect would them turne, Might faſt turne from their viuall courſe the skie, The earth, the ayre, the water, and the fire. And quite remooue the earth from oft his ſeate. But why commaund you me to ſpeake but ſmall? Small ſhall I tell, it I but tell you ſhall That I muſt die, and leſſe ſhall dying doo, If I but ſee what is my turne too. Ay me, what ſhall I do? which may out-laſt My miſerable loue? When I am dead, Yet cruell ſoule haue pitie on my paines. Ah faire! ah deare I ſometime ſo ſweete a cauſe Why I did liue whilſt my good fates were pleaſd. Turne hitherward thoſe ſtarry lights of loue, Let me them ſee once meeke and full of pitie Before I die. So may my death be ſweet. As they haue bene good guide, vnto my life, So let them be vnto my death, and that Sweet loke which firſt begat my loue, beget My death my loues Hesperus become The ſtare of my decaying day. But you obdurate, neuer , Whil I more humble you more haughtie are. And can you heare me and not ſpeake a word? Whom do I ſpeake too wretch a marble ſtone? If you will ſay nought elſe, yet bid me die, And you ſhal ſee what force your words will haue. Ah wicked loue, this is a miſerie extreame, A Nymph ſo cruell ſo deſirous of my death, Becauſe I aske it as a fauour, ſcornes to giue it, Arming her cruell voyce in ſilence ſo, Leaſt it might fauour mine exceeding wo.