Il Pastor Fido, or The Faithful Shepherd · chunk 52 of 71
Dymoke, Tailboys / Guarini, Giovanni Battista · published 1602 · first performed or written 1601 (Annals) pastoral T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.78 · 530 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
See where he is, with countenance him accusing. Now heavens be praised, you're at good pass, With this your bow and shafts omnipotent, Hast thou not like a cunning Woodman shot? Tell me, thou that of silver liust; was it not I That shot this dainty shoot? Oh Boy too wise, Hadst thou believed this foolish aged man, Had it not better been Answer me wretch. What can thy life be worth, if thee do die? I know thou'st say thou thoughtst t'have shot a Wolf, As though it were no fault to shoot Not knowing (careless wandering chied) if 'twere A man or beast thou shotst at: what Herdsman, or What Plougsman dost thou see attired in other clothes? Ah Silvio, Silvio, who ever soweth wilt so green, Doth ever reap ripe fruit of ignorance. Think you (vain Boy) this chance by chance did come? Never without the powers divine did such like happen: Heaven is enraged at your supportlesse spite, To love and deep despising so human affects. God's will not have companions on the earth, They are not pleased with this austerity: Now thou art dumb, thou wert not wont t'endure. Silvio, let Linco speak, he doth not know What sou'raign●tie thou o'er Dorinda haste, In life and death by the great power of love. If thou hast shot me, thou hast shot thine own: Thou hitst the mark that's proper to thy shaft, These hands that wounded me, have followed right The aim of thy fair eyes. Silvio, behold her whom Thou hatest so, behold her as thou wouldst: Thou wouldst me wounded have, wounded I am: Thou wished me dead, I ready am for death, What wouldst thou more? What can I give thee more? Ah cruel Boy, thou never wouldst believe The wound by thee Love made, canst thou deny That which thy hand hath done? thou never sawst The blood mine eyes did shed; seest thou this then, That gusheth from my side: but if with pity now All gentleness and valour be not spent, Do not deny me cruel soul, I pray, At my last gasp, one poor and only sigh: Death should be blessed, if thou but thus wouldst say, Go rest in peace poor soul, I humbly pray. Ah my Dorinda, shall I call thee mine, That art not mine, but when I thee must lose: And when thou hast thy death received by me, Not when I might have given thee thy life: Yet will I call thee mine, that mine shalt be Spite of my fortune: and since with thy life I cannot have thee, I'll have thee in death: All that thou seest in me, is ready for revenge: I killed thee with these weapons, with the same I'll kill myself: I cruel was to thee, I now desire nothing but cruelty. I proudly thee despied, upon my knees I humbly thee adore, and pardon crave; But not my life. Behold my Bow, my Shafts. Wound not mine eyes or hands, theyare innocent: But wound my breast, monster to pity, foe To love: wound me this heart, that cruel was To thee: behold, my breast is bare.
nodes 3294–3355 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 52 of 71 in this edition
Length
530 words · 709 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.776 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
See where he is, with countenance him accuſing. Now heauens be prayſd, y'are at good paſſe, VVith this your bowe and ſhaftes omnipotent, Haſt thou not like a cunning Wood-man ſhot? Tell mee, thou that of Sil liuſt; was it not I That ſhot this daintie ſhoote? Oh Boy too wiſe, Hadſt thou beleeu'd this fooliſh aged man, Had it not better been Anſwere me wretch. What can thy life be worth, if thee do die? I know thou'ſt ſay thou thoughtſt t'haue ſhot a Woolfe, As though it were no fault to ſhoote Not knowing (careleſſe wandring chi'd) if t'were A man or beaſt thou ſhotſt at: what Heardſman, or What Plougsman doſt thou ſee attyr'd in other cloathes? Ah Siluio, Siluio, who euer ſoweth wit ſo greene, Doth euer reape ripe fruite of ignorance. Thinke you (vaine Boy) this chaunce by chaunce did come? Neuer without the powers deuine did ſuch like happen: Heauen is enrag'd at your ſupportleſſe ſpight, To loue and deepe deſpiſing ſo humane affectes. Gods will not haue companions on the earth, They are not pleasd with this auſteritie: Now thou art dumbe, thou wert not wont t'indure. Siluio, let Linco ſpeake, he doth not know What ſou'raigntie thou o're Dorinda haſt, In life and death by the great power of Loue. If thou haſt ſhot me, thou haſt ſhot thine owne: Thou hitſt the marke that's proper to thy ſhaft, Theſe handes that wounded me, haue follow'd right The ayme of thy faire eyes. Siluio, behold her whom Thou hateſt ſo, behold her as thou wouldſt: Thou wouldſt me wounded haue, wounded I am: Thou wiſh't me dead, I ready am for death, What wouldſt thou more? What can I giue thee more? Ah cruell Boy, thou neuer wouldſt beleeue The wound by thee Loue made, canſt thou deny That which thy hand hath done? thou neuer ſawſt The blood mine eyes did ſhed; ſeeſt thou this then, That guſheth from my ſide: but if with pittie now All gentleneſſe and valoure be not ſpent, Do not denie me cruell ſoule, I pray, At my laſt gaſpe, one poore and onely ſigh: Death ſhould be bleſt, if thou but thus wouldſt ſay, Goe reſt in peace poore ſoule, I humbly pray. Ah my Dorinda, ſhall I call thee mine, That art not mine, but when I thee muſt looſe: And when thou aſt thy death receiued by mee, Not when I might haue giu'n thee thy life: Yet will I call thee mine, that mine ſhalt bee Spight of my fortune: and ſince with thy life I cannot haue thee, I'le haue thee in death: All that thou ſeeſt in me, is ready for reuenge: I kilde thee with theſe weapons, with the ſame I'le kill my ſelfe: I cruell was to thee, I now deſire nothing but crueltie. I proudly thee deſpi'd, vpon my knees I humbly thee adore, and pardon craue; But not my lyfe. Behold my Bowe, my Shaftes. Wound not mine eyes or handes, th'are innocent: But wound my breſt, monſter to pittie, foe To loue: wound me this hart, that cruell was To thee: behold, my breſt is bare.