The Queen's Arcadia (Arcadia Reformed) · chunk 22 of 41
Daniel, Samuel · published 1606 · first performed or written 1605 [Aug 30] (Annals) pastoral · before the Court unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 454 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Now fie Amyntas, why should you thus grieve For a most foolish way ward girl, that scorns Your honest love, and laughs at all you do; For shame Amyntas let her go as she's You see her vain, and how perversely set, 'Tis fond so follow what we cannot get. O Techne, Techne, though I never get, Yet will I ever follow whilst I breathe, And if I perish by the way, yet shall My death be pleasing that for her I die. And one day she may hap to come that way, (And be it, o her way) where I shall lie, And with her proud disdainful foot she may Tread on my tomb, and say, lo where he lies, The triumph, and the conquest of mine eyes. And though I lose myself, and lose my tears, It shall be glory yet that I was hers. What have I done of late, should make her thus My presence with that strange disdain to fly, As if she did abhor my company? Cloris God knows, thou hast no cause therefore, Unless it be for loving more, and more. Why thou wert wont to lend me yet an ear, And though thou wouldst not help, yet wouldst thou hear. Perhaps she thinks thy heat willbe allayed, The fire being gone, and therefore doth she well Not to be seen there where she will not aid. Alas she knows no hand but hers can quench That heat in me, and therefore doth she wrong To fire my heart, and then to run away. And if she would not aid, yet might she ease My careful soul, if she would but stand by And only look upon me while I die. Well well Amyntas, little dost thou know With whom that cunning wanton sorts herself, Whilst thus thou mournest, and with what secret wiles She works, to meet her lover in the woods, With whom in groves, and caves she dallying sits, And mocks thy passions, and thy doleful fits. No Techne, no, I know that cannot be, And therefore do not wrong her modesty, For Cloris loves no man, and that's some case Unto my grief, and gives a hope that yet If ever soft affection touch her heart, She will look back, and think on my desert. If that be all, that hope is at an end, For if thou wilt this evening but attend And walk down under Erycina's grove, And place thyself in some close secret bush, Right opposite unto the hollow cave That looks into the valley, thou shalt see That honesty, and that great modesty. If I see Cloris there, I know I shall, See nothing else with her, but modesty.
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)
Now fie Amyntas, why should you thus grieue For a most foolish way ward girle, that scornes Your honest loue, and laughes at all you doe; For shame Amyntas let her goe as You see her vaine, and how peruersly set, 'Tis fond so follow what we cannot get. O Techne, Techne, though I neuer get, Yet will I euer follow whilst I breath, And if I perish by the way, yet shall My death be pleasing that for her I die. And one day she may hap to come that way, (And be it, ô her way) where I shall lye, And with her proud disdainefull fooe she may Tread on my tombe, and say, loe where he lyes, The triumph, and the conquest of mine eyes. And though I loose my selfe, and looso my teares, It shall be glory yet that I was hers. What haue I done of late, should make her thus My presence with that strange disdaine to flie, As if she did abhorre my company? Cloris God knowes, thou hast no cause therefore, Vnlesse it be for louing more, and more. Why thou wet wont to lend me yet an eare, And though thou wouldst not helpe, yet wouldst thou heare. Perhaps she thinkes thy heat wilbe allayd, The fire being gone, and therefore doth she well Not to be seene there where she will not aide. Alas she knowes no hand but hers can quech That heat in mee, and therefore doth she wrong To fyre my heart, and then to runne away. And if she would not ayde, yet might she ease My carefull soule, if she would but stand by And onely looke vpon me while I die. Well well Amintas, little dost thou know With whom that cunning wanton sortes her selfe, Whilst thus thou mourn'st, and with what secret wiles She workes, to meete her louer in the wodes, With whom in groues, and caues she allying sitts, And mocks thy passions, and thy dolefull fitts. No Techne, no, I know that cannot be, And therefore doe not wrong her modestie, For Cloris loues no man, and that's some case Vnto my griefe, and giues a hope that ye If euer soft affection touch her heart, She will looke back, and thinke on my desert. If that be all, that hope is at an end, For if thou wilt this euening but attend And walke downe vnder Ericinas groue, And place thy selfe in some close secret bush, Right opposite vnto the hollow caue That looks into the vallye, thou shalt see That honestie, and that great modestie. If I see Cloris there, I know I shall, See nothing els with her, but modestie.