Fletcher, John · published 1610 · first performed or written 1608 [1608-1609] (Annals) pastoral; tragicomedy · Children of the Queen's Revels T22 Shepherds, flocks and Pan typicality 0.77 · 477 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T22: shepherd, pan, shepherds, love, sheep, flocks, fair, shepherdess, swain, away.
God pardon sin, show me the way that leads, To any of their haunts. This to the Meads. And that down to the woods, Then this for me, Come Shepherd let me crave your company. Now your thoughts are almost pure: And your wound begins to cure. Strive to banish all that's vain, Lest it should break out again. Eternal thanks to thee, thou holy maid: I find my former wandering thoughts, well stayed, Through thy wise precepts, and my outward pain, By thy choice herbs is almost gone again. Thy sex's vice and virtue are revealed, At once, for what one hurt another healed. May thy grief more appease, Relapses, are the worst disease: Take heed how you in thought offend, So mind and body both will mend. Be'st thou the wildest creature of the Wood, That bear'st me thus a way drowned in my blood. And dying, know I cannot injured be I am a maid, let that name fight for me: Fairest Virgin do not fear, Me that doth thy body bear, Not to hurt, but held to be, Men are ruder far than we. See fair Goddess in the wood, They have let out yet more blood: Some savage man hath struck her breast So soft and white, that no wild beast, Durst a touched asleep or wake, So sweet that Adder, newt, or Snake. Would have lain from arm to arm, On her bosom to be warm, All a night and being hot, Gone away and stung her not. Quickly clap herbs to her breast, A man sure is a kind of Beast, With spotless hand, on spotless Breast, I put these herbs to give thee rest. Which till it heal thee there will bide If both be pure, if not of slide. See it falls of from the wound, shepherdess thou art not sound, Fall of lust. Who would have thought it, So fair a face: Why that hath brought it. For aught I know or think, these words my last: Yet Pan, so help me as my thoughts are chaste. And so may Pan bless this my cure, As all my thoughts are just and pure, Some uncleanness nigh doth lurk, That will not let my medicines work. Satire search if thou canst find it, Here away methinks I wind it. Stronger yet, Oh here they be, Here here in a hollow tree. Two fond mortals have I found, Bring them out they are unsound. By the fingers thus I wring ye, To my Goddess thus I bring ye. Strife is vain come gently in, I scented them, they are full of sin, Hold Satire, take this Glass, Sprinkle over all the place, Purge the Air from lustful breath, To save this Shepherdess from death. And stand you still, whilst I do dress Her wound for fear the pain increase,
nodes 2163–2234 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 33 of 40 in this edition
Length
477 words · 614 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T22 — Shepherds, flocks and Pancross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.774 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T24 · seed 44: T25 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
God pardon sinne, showe me the way that leades, To any of their haunts. This to the Meades. And that downe to the woods, Then this for me, Come Shepheard let me craue your company. Now your thoughts are almost pure: And your wound beginns to cure. Striue to bannish all thats vaine, Lest it should breake out againe. Eternall thanks to thee, thou holy mayde: I find my former wandring thoughts, well stayd, Through thy ise precepts, and my outward payne, By thy choyce hearbs is almost gone againe. Thy sexes vice and vertue are reueald, At once, for what one hurt another heald. May thy griefe more apease, Relapses, are the worst disease: Take heede how you in thought offend, So mind and body both will mend. Beest thou the wildest creature of the Wood, That bearst me thus a way drownd in my blood. And dying, know I cannot iniurd be I am a mayde, let that name fight for me: Fayrest Virgine do not feare, Me that doth thy body beare, Not to hurt, but held to be, Men are ruder farre then we. See fayre Goddesse in the wood, They haue let out yet more blood: Some sauadge man hath strucke her brest So soft and white, that no wild beast, Durst a toucht asleepe or wake, So sweete that Adder, Neut, or Snake. Would haue layn from arme to arme, On her Bossome to be warme, All a night and being hot, Gone away and stung her not. Quickly clap hearbs to her brest, A man sure is a kind of Beast, With spottlesse hand, on spotlesse Brest, I put these hearbs to giue thee rest. Which till it heale the there wil bide If both be pure, if no of slide. See it falls of from the wound, Sepheardesse thou art not sound, Fall of lust. Who would haue thought it, So fayre a face: Why that hath brought it. For ought I know or thinke, these words my last: Yet Pan, so helpe me as my thoughts are chast. And so may Pan blesse this my cure, As all my thoughts are iust and pure, Some vncleanesse nye doth lurke, That will not let my medcines worke. Satyre search if thou canst find it, Here away me thinks I wind it. Stronger yet, Oh here they be, Heere heere in a hollow tree. Two fond mortalls haue I found, Bring them out they are vnsound. By the fingers thus I wring yee, To my Goddesse thus I bring yee. Strife is vayne come gently in, I sented them, they are full of sinne, Hold Satyre, take this Glasse, Sprinkle ouer all the place, Purge the Ayre from lustfull breath, To saue this Shepheardesse frō death. And stand you still, whilst I do dresse Her wound for feare the payne increase,