Il Pastor Fido, or The Faithful Shepherd · chunk 56 of 71
Dymoke, Tailboys / Guarini, Giovanni Battista · published 1602 · first performed or written 1601 (Annals) pastoral T19 Virtue, Fortune and Vice as abstractions typicality 0.83 · 528 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T19: virtue, fortune, virtues, honour, fame, vice, envy, world, pride, great.
Who would have thought t'have waxed poor in gold I thought t'have found in royal Paliaces People of more humanity, than here, Which is the noble ornament of worthy spirits; But I (Uranio) found the contrary: People in name and words right courteous, But in good deeds most scarce, and Pities foes: People in face, gentle and pleasant still; But fiercer than theoutrageous swelling Sea: People with countenance all of charity, But thoroughly Covetous, and fraught with Envy: The greater shows they make, the less troth they mean▪ That which is virtue otherwhere, is there but vice: Uprightest deeds, true love, pity sincere, faith, of hand and heart, A hie most innocent; these they esteem But cowards still, and men of silly wits: Follies and vanities, that are ridiculous, Coosonage, lying, theft, and rapine clad: In holiness, by others downefalles and their loss, Rich still to grow, to build their reputation On other's infamy, to lay five snares To trap the innocent; these are the virtues of that place. No merit, worth, reverence of age, Of law, or of degree, no rains of shame, Respect of love or blood, nor memory Of any good received: and to conclude, nothing so reverend, pure, or just can be, That seems forbidden to these gulfs of pride, Of honour so ambitious: so covetous Of getting still. Now I that always lived Unwary of their snares, and in my forehead had All my thoughts written, my heart discovered; You well may judge, I was an open mark To the suspicious shafts of envious folks. What can be happy in that caitiff land, Where Envy ever Virtue doth command? If since I travailed, my Muse had had As good a cause to laugh as 't'had to weep, Perhaps my stile would have been fit t'have sung The arms, and honours, of my noble Lord, So that he needed not to have envied The brave Meonian trumpet of Achilles' fame. I might have made my Country's brow, been girt With happy Laurel too: But too inhuman is this age, And too unhappy gift of Poetry. The Swans desire a quiet nest, a gentle air, Pernassus never knew this biting care. Who quarrels with his fate and fortwe still, His voice must needs be hoarse, his song but ill: But now 'tis time to seek Mirtillo out. Oh how this country's changed! I scarcely know't: But Strangers never want a guide that have a tongue, We will inquire to the next harbour house, Where thou thy weary limbs mayst well repose. WHich plain I first (my child) of thee? thy life Or honesty? I'll plain thine honesty, Because thy fire (though mortal) honest was: And in thy steed my life I'll plain and spend, Of thy life and thine honesty to see an end. O Montane, only thou with thy devices And ill-●und Oracles, and with thy love, And proud despiser of my daughter, to this end, Hast brought my child. Oh doubtful Oracles, How vain you be? and honesty 'gainst love In youthful hearts a weak defence doth prove, A woman whom no match hath ever sought, Is evil guarded from this common thought.
seed 43: T13 · seed 44: T16 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Who would haue thought t'haue waxed poore in gold I thought t'haue found in royall Paliaces People of more humanitie, then heere, Which is the noble ornament of worthy ſprightes; But I ( Ʋrio) found the contrarie: People in name and wordes right curtuous, But in good deedes moſt arſe, and Pitties foes: People in face, gentle and pleaſant ſtill; But fiercer then th'outrgious ſwelling Sea: People with countenaunce all of charitie, But throughly Couetous, and fraught with Enuie: The greater ſhowes they make, the leſſe troth they meane▪ That which is vertue otherwhere, is there but vice: Vprighteſt deedes, true loue, pittie ſinceere, fayth, of hand and hart, A hie moſt innocent; theſe they eſteeme But cowards ſtill, and men of ſillie wittes: Follies and vanities, that are rediculous, Cooſonage, lying, theft, and rapine clad: In holineſſe, by others downefalles and their loſſe, Rich ſtill to grow, to builde their reputation On others infamie, to lay fiue ſnares To trap the innocent; theſe are the vertues of that place. No merrit, worth, reuerence of age, Of law, or of degree, no raines of ſhame, Reſpect of loue or blood, nor memorie Of any good receiued: and to conclude, nothing ſo reuerend, pure, or iuſt can be, That ſeemes forbidden to theſe gulfes of pride, Of honour ſo ambitious: ſo couetous Of getting ſtill. Now I that alwayes liu'd Vnwarie of their ſnares, and in my forehead had All my thoughts written, my hart diſcouered; You well may iudge, I was an open marke To the ſuſpicious ſhaftes of enuious folkes. What can be happie in that caytiue land, Where Enuie euer Vertue doth commaund? If ſince I trauailed, my Muſe had had As good a cauſe to laugh as t'had to weepe, Perhaps my ſtile would haue been fit t'haue ſung The armes, and honours, of my noble Lord, So that he needed not to haue enuyed The braue Meonian trumpet of Achilles fame. I might haue made my Countries browe, been girt With happie Laurell too: But too inhumane is this age, And too vnhappie guit of Poetrie. The Swans deſire a quiet neſt, a gentle ayre, Pernaſsu neuer knew this byting care. Who quarrels with his fate and fortuue ſtill, His voyce muſt needes be hoarſe, his ſong but ill: But now t'is time to ſeeke Mirtillo out. Oh how this Countrey's chaungd! I ſcarcely know't: But Straungers neuer want a guide that haue a tongue, We will enquire to the next harbour houſe, Where thou thy wearie limmes mayſt well repoſe. WHich plaine I firſt (my child) of thee? thy life Or honeſtie? Ile plaine thine honeſtie, Becauſe thy fire (though mortall) honeſt was: And in thy ſteed my life I'le plaine and ſpend, Of thy life and thine honeſtie to ſee an end. O Montane, onely thou with thy deuices And ill-und Oracles, and with thy loue, And proud deſpiſer of my daughter, to this end, Haſt brought my child. Oh doubtfull Oracles, How vaine you bee? and honeſtie gainſt loue In youthfull hartes a weake defence doth proue, A woman whom no match hath euer ſought, Is euill guarded from this common thought.