Il Pastor Fido, or The Faithful Shepherd · chunk 50 of 71
Dymoke, Tailboys / Guarini, Giovanni Battista · published 1602 · first performed or written 1601 (Annals) pastoral unassigned nearest T21 Cupid, Venus and the nymphs · 534 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T21: cupid, venus, love, ceres, diana, fair, nymphs, goddess, bow, damon.
O Goddess, that no Goddess art, but of An idle people, blind and vain: who with Impurest minds and fond Religion, halloweth the Altars and great Temples too. What, said I Temples? wicked theatres O beastly deedes, to colour their dishonest actes With titles of thy famous Deity, Because thy shames in others shames made less, Let lose the rains of their lasciviousness. Thou foe to Reason, plotter of mildeedes, Corrupter to our souls, calamity To the whole world; thou daughter of the Sea, And of that treacherous monster rightly borne, That with the breath of hope dost first entice These human breasts, but afterward dost move A thousand storms of sighs, of tears, of plaints: Thou mayst be better called Mother of tempests and O● rage, than Mother of love. To what a misery hast thou thrown down Those wretched Lovers? now mayst thou vaunt thyself To be omnipotent, if thou canst save That poor nymphs life, whom with thy snares thou hast Conducted to this miserable death. O happy day I hallowd my chaste mind To thee my only Goddess Cynthia, Such power on earth to souls of better sort, As thou art light in heaven above the Stars. Much better are those studious practices Then those which Venus unchaste servants use: Thy servants kill both Bears and ugly Boors, Her servants are of Bears and Boors still slain. Oh Bow and matchless Shafts, my power and my delight, Vain fantastive Love, come prove thine arms, sseminate with mine: but fie, too much I honour thee poor weak and wreckling child, And for thou shalt me hear, I'll speak aloud. A rod to chastise thee will be enough.— enough. What art thou L●●ho that so sounds again? Or rather Love, that answerest loudly so?— I could have wished no better match; but tell Me then, Art thou (by heaven) he— The son of her that for Aaenis did So miserably burn, in whom nought good it.— Goddess. A Goddess? no, the Concubine of Mars, In whom 〈◊〉 doth wholly lie— wholly a lie. O fine, thy tongue doth 〈...〉, Wilt thou come forth? thou do●● but darkly dare,— I held thee for a coward 〈◊〉, art thou a 〈...〉 Dost thou that title bravely scorn— O God, than art thou Vulcan's son, by that Lame Smith begot.— God, A God? of what? of Winds, mad with base ●●earth— earth. God of the earth? makes thou thy foes to rue:— t'●ue. With what dost thou still punish those that strive, And obstinately do contend with Love?— Nay soft, when shall crooked Love (tell me good fool) Enter my breast? I warrent 'tis too straight.— straight, What, shall I fall in love so suddenly?— suddenly, What is her name that I must then adore?— Dore. Dorinda fool, thou canst not speak out yet, But dost not thou mean her●— Dorinda whom I hate; but who shall force my wills— I will. What weapons wilt thou use? perhaps thy Bow,— My Bow? not till it be by thy lewd folly broken,— broken My broken arms encounter me, and who Shall break them? thou?— thou. Fie fie thou art drunk, go sleep go sleep: but stay,
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 Goddeſſe, that no Goddeſſe art, but of An idle people, blinde and vaine: who with Impureſt mindes and fond Religion, Hallowes the Aulters and great Temples too. VVhat, ſayd I Temples? wicked Theaters O beaſtly deedes, to colour their diſhoneſt actes With titles of thy famous Deitie, Becauſe thy ſhames in others ſhames made leſſe, Let loſe the raines of their laſciuiouſneſſe. Thou foe to Reaſon, plotter of mildeedes, Corrupter to our ſoules, calamitie To the whole worlde; thou daughter of the Sea, And of that treacherous monſter rightly borne, That with the breath of hope doſt firſt intice Theſe humane breſtes, but afterward doſt mooue A thouſand ſtormes of ſighes, of teares, of plaintes: Thou mayſt be better calld Mother of tempeſtes and O rage, then Mother of Loue. To what a miſerie haſt thou throwne downe Thoſe wretched Louers? now mayſt thou vaunt thy ſelfe To be omnipotent, if thou canſt ſaue That poore Nimphs life, whom with thy ſnares thou haſt Conducted to this miſerable death. O happy day I hallowd my chaſt minde To thee my onely Goddeſſe Cinthia, Such power on earth to ſoules of better ſort, As thou art light in heau'n aboue the Starres. Much better are thoſe ſtudious practiſes Then thoſe which Venus vnchaſt ſeruantes vſe: Thy ſeruantes kill both Beares and ougly Boores, Her ſeruantes are of Beares and Boores ſtill ſlaine. Oh Bowe and matchles Shaftes, my power and my delight, Vaine fantaſtiue Loue, come prooue thyne armes, ſſeminate with mine: but fie, too much I honour thee poore weake and wreckling child, And for thou ſhalt me heare, I'le ſpeake aloud. A rod to chaſtiſe thee will be inough.—ynough. VVhat art thou Lho that ſo ſoundes againe? Or rather Loue, that anſwereſt loudly ſo?—y ſo. I could haue wiſht no better match; but tell Me then, Art thou (by heauen) hee—eauen hee The ſonne of her that for Aaenis did So miſerably burne, in whom nought good it.—Goddeſſe. A Goddeſſe? no, the Concubine of Mars, In whom doth wholly lye—holly a lye. O fine, thy tongue doth , Wilt thou come foorth? thou do but darkly dare,—y dare, I helde thee for a coward , art thou a Doſt thou that title brauely skorne—y skorne. O God, then art thou Ʋulaes ſonne, by that Lame Smith begot.—God, A God? of what? of Winds, madd with baſe earth—earth. God of the earth? makes thou thy foes to rue:—t'ue. VVith what doſt thou ſtill puniſh thoſe that ſtriue, And obſtinately do contende with Loue?—with Loue. Nay ſoft, when ſhall crook't Loue (tell me good foole) Enter my breſt? I warrent t'is too ſtraight.—ſtraight, What, ſhall I fall in loue ſo ſodainely?—ſodainely, What is her name that I muſt then adore?—Dore. Dorind foole, thou canſt not ſpeake out yet, But doſt not thou meane her—ee'n her. Dorinda whom I hate; but who ſhall force my will—I will. What weapons wilt thou vſe? perhaps thy Bow,—thy Bow My Bow? not till it be by thy leawd folly broken,—broken My broken armes incounter me, and who Shall breake them? thou?—thou. Fie fie thou art drunke, goe ſleepe goe ſleepe: but ſtay,