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 0.70 · 532 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T22: shepherd, pan, shepherds, love, sheep, flocks, fair, shepherdess, swain, away.
Here will I wash it in the morning's dew, Which she on every little grass doth strew, In silver drops against the Suns appear: 'tis holy water and will make me clear. My hand will not be cleansed, my wronged love, If thy chaste spirit in the Air yet move, Look mildly down on him that yet doth stand, All full of guilt thy blood upon his hand, And though I struck thee undeservedly, Let my revenge on her that Injured thee. Make less a fault which I intended not, And let these dew drops wash away my spot, It will not cleanse, O to what sacred flood, Shall I resort to wash away this blood: Amidst these Trees the holy Clorin. dwells, In a low Cabin, of cut boughs and heals, All wounds, to her I will myself a dress, And my rash faults repentantly confess: Perhaps she'll find a means by Art or prayer, To make my hand with chaste blood stained, fair That done not far hence underneath some tree, I'll have a little Cabin built since she, Whom I adore is dead, there will I give, myself to strictness and like Clorin live. Shepherd once more your blood is stayed, Take example by this maid, Who is healed ere you be pure, so hard it is lewd lust to cure, Take heed then how you turn your eyes On these other lust fully, And shepherdess take heed least you, Move his willing eye thereto, Let no wring, nor pinch, nor smile Of yours, his weaker sense beguile, Is your love yet true and chaste, And for ever so to last. I have forgot all vain desires, All looser thoughts, ill tempered fires, True love I find a pleasant fume, Whose moderate heat can near consume. And I a new fire feel in me, Whose base end is not quenched to be. join your hands with modest touch, And for ever keep you such. Yond is her cabin, thus far off i'll stand, And call her forth, for my unhallowed hand, I dare not bring so near yon sacred place, Clorin come forth and do a timely grace, To a poor swain, What art thou that dost call? Clorin is ready to do good to all. Come near. I dare not. Clorin. Satire, see Who it is that calls on me. there's a hand some swain doth stand, Stretching out a bloody hand. Come Clorin bring thy holy waters clear, To wash my hand. What wonders have been here tonight stretch forth thy hand young swain, Wash and rub it whilst I rain Holy water. Still you power, But my hand will never scour. Satire bring him to the bower we will try the sovereign power Of other waters. Mortal 'tis the blood of maiden pure That stains he so. whatever thou be. Be'st thou her sprite, or some divinity, That in her shape thinks good to walk this grove, Pardon poor Perigot I am thy love. Thy Amoret. for evermore thy love: Stick once more on my naked breast, I'll prove As constant still, O canst thou love me yet, How soon could I my former griefs forget.
nodes 2449–2527 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 37 of 40 in this edition
Length
532 words · 695 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T22 — Shepherds, flocks and Pancross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.699 (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)
Here will I wash it in the mornings dewe, Which she on euery litle grasse doth strewe, In siluer dropps agaist the Sunnes appeare: Tis holy water and will make me cleere. My hand will not be cleansed, my wronged loue, If thy chast spirit in the Ayre yet moue, Looke mildly downe on him that yet doth stand, All ull of guilt thy blood vpon his hand, And though I strucke thee vndeseruedly, Let my reuenge on her that Iniurd thee. Make lesse a fault which I intended not, And let these dew dropps wash away my spot, It will not clense, O to what sacred lood, Shall I resort to wash away this blood: Amidst these Trees the holy Clorin. dwells, In a low Cabin, of cut boughs and heales, All wounds, to her I will my selfe a dresse, And my rashfaultes repentantly confesse: Perhaps sheele find a meanes by Arte or prayer, To make my hand with chast blood stayned, fayre That done not farre hence vnderneath some tree, Ile hae a little Cabin built since shee, Whom I adorde is dead, there will I giue, My selfe to stricknesse and like Clorin liue. Shepheard once more your bloold is stayed, Take example by this mayd, Who is healde ee you be pure, so hard it is lewd lust to cure, Take heede then how you turne your eye On these other lust fully, And sheephearesse take eedleast you, Moue his willing eye thereto, Let no wring, nor pinch, nor smile Of yours, his weaker sence beguyle, Is your loue yet true and chast, And for euer so to last. I haue forgot all vaine desires, All looser thoughts, ill temped fires, True loue I find a pleasant ume, Whose moderat heat can nere consume. And I a newe fire feele in mee, Whose base end is not quencht to be. Ioyne your hands with modest touch, And for euer keepe you such. Yon is her cabin, thus far off ile stand, And call her foorth, for my vnhallowed hand, I dare not bring so neere yo sacerd place, Clorin come foorth and do a timely grace, To a poore swaine, What art thou that doest call? Clorin is ready to do good to all. Come neere. I dare not. Clorin. Satyre, see Who it is that calls on mee. Thers a hand some swaine doth stand, Stretching out a bloudy hand. Come Clorin bring thy holy waters clear, To wash my hand. What wnders haue beene here To night stretch oorth thy hand young swaine, Wash and ubbe it whylst I raine Holy water. Still you power, But my hand will neuer scoure. Satire bring him to the bowre Wee will try the soueragne power Of other waters. Motall sue, Tis the bloud of mayden pure That staines hee soe. What e're thou be. Beest thou her spright, or some diuinitie, That in her shape thinks good to walke this groue, Pardon poore Pergot I am thy loue. Thy Amoret. for euermore thy loue: Sticke once more on my naked brest, Ile prooue As constant still, O canst thou loue me yet, How soone could I my former griefes forget.