Il Pastor Fido, or The Faithful Shepherd · chunk 36 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 · 494 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Ere I change will or thought, changed must my life Be into death, for though the beauteous Amarillis Be most cruel, yet is she all my life: Nor can this body's bulk at once contain More than one heart, more than one soul retain. O wretched shepherd, ill thou know'st to use Love in his kind, love one that hates thee, one That flies from thee, fie man, I had rather die. As gold in fire, so saith in grief's refined, Nor can (Corisca) amorous constancy Show his great power, but through cruelty. This only rests amongst my many griefs. My sole content doth my heart burn or die, Or languish ne'er so much, light are the pains, Plaints, torments, sighs, exile, and death itself, For such a cause, for such a sweet respect. That life before my faith shall broken be, So worse than death I hold inconstancy. O brave exploit, Lover magnanimous, Like an enraged beast or senseless rock, There cannot be a greater damned plague, More mortal poison to a soul in love. Then is this faith. Unhappy is that heart That let itself be gulled with vain fantas●nes Of this erroneous and unseasonable Disturber of these amorous delights. Tell me poor man with this thy foolish virtue of constancy, What lov'st thou in her that doth thee despise? Lov'st thou the beauty that is none of thine? The joy thou hast not? the pity thou want'st? The reward thou dost not hope for? if thou deemest right, Thou lov'st thine ill, thy grief, thy very death, thouart mad to hunt thus that thou canst not have. Lift up thyself (Mirtillo) happily thou want'st some choice of friends, thou finds none to thy mind. More dear to me is pain for Amarillis▪ Then any joy a thousand else can give: If me my fates forbid her to enjoy, For me then die all other kinds of joy. I fortunate in any other kind of love? No though I would I could not: Nor though I could I would not. And if I thought in any time henceforth My will would wish or power obtain the same, I would desire of heaven and love at once Both will and power might quite be ta'en away. Wilt thou then die for her that thee disdains? Who pity not expects doth fear no pains. Do not deceive thyself, perhaps thou think'st She doth dissemble in this deep despite, And that she loves thee well for all this show. Oh that thou knewst what unto me she ever says. All these are trophies of my truest faith, With which I will triumph over her cruel will, Over my pains, and my distressed chance, Over world's fortune, and over death itself. (What would he do, did he but know her love?) How I bewail thee wretched frenzy man: Tell me didst thou e'er any love besides? She was my first, and she my last shall be.
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)
Ere I change will or thought, chang'd muſt my life Be into death, for though the beautious Amarillis Be moſt cruell, yet is ſhe all my life: Nor can this bodies bulke at once containe More then one heart, more then one ſoule retaine. O wretched ſhepheard, ill thou knowſt to vſe Loue in his kind, loue one that hates thee, one That flies from thee, fie man, I had rather die. As gold in fire, ſo ſaith in griefe's refinde, Nor can (Coriſca) amrous conſtancie Shewe his great power, but thorough crueltie. This onely reſts amongſt my many griefes. My ſole content doth my heart burne or die, Or languiſh ne're ſo much, light are the paines, Plaints, torments, ſighes, exile, and death it ſelfe, For ſuch a cauſe, for ſuch a ſweet reſpect. That life before my faith ſhall broken bee, So worſe then death I hold inconſtancie. O braue exploit, Louer magnanimous, Like an enraged beaſt or ſenceleſſe rocke, There cannot be a greater damned plague, More mortall poyſon to a ſoule in loue. Then is this faith. Vnhappie is that heart That let it ſelfe be guld with vaine fantaſnes Of this erronious and vnſeaſonable Diſturber of theſe amorous delights. Tell me poore man with this thy fooliſh vertue of conſtancie, What lou'ſt thou in her that doth thee deſpiſe? Lou'ſt thou the beautie that is none of thine? The ioy thou haſt not? the pittie thou wantſt? The reward thou doſt not hope for? if thou deem'ſt right, Thou lou'ſt thine ill, thy grief, thy very death, Th'art mad to hunt thus that thou canſt not haue. Lift vp thy ſelfe (Mirtillo) happily thou wantſt ome choiſe of friends, thou finds none to thy mind. More deare to me is paine for Amarillis▪ Then any ioy a thouſand elſe can giue: If me my fates forbid her to enioy, For me then die all other kinds of ioy. I fortunate in any other kinde of loue? No though I would I could not: Nor though I could I would not. And if I thought in any time henceforth My will would wiſh or power obtaine the ſame, I would deſire of heau'n and loue at once Both will and power might quite be ta'ne away. Wilt thou then die for her that thee diſdaines? Who pitie not expects doth feare no paines. Do not deceiue thy ſelfe, perhaps thou think'ſt Shee doth diſſemble in this deepe deſpight, And that ſhe loues thee well for all this ſhowe. Oh that thou knewſt what vnto me ſhee euer ſayes. All theſe are trophees of my trueſt faith, With which I will triumph ouer her cruell will, Ouer my paines, and my diſtreſſed chance, Ouer worlds fortune, and ouer death it ſelfe. (What would he do, did he but know her loue?) How I bewaile thee wretched phrenſie man: Tell me didſt thou e're any loue beſides? She was my firſt, and ſhe my laſt ſhall be.