Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1599 [1598-1599] (Annals) comedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T22 Shepherds, flocks and Pan · 479 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T22: shepherd, pan, shepherds, love, sheep, flocks, fair, shepherdess, swain, away.
O dear Phebe, If ever (as that ever may be near) You meet in some fresh cheek the power of fancy, Then shall you know the wounds invisible That Love's keen arrows make. But till that time Come not thou near me: and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mocks, pity me not, As till that time I shall not pity thee. And why I pray you? who might be your mother That you insult, exult, and all at once Over the wretched? what though you have no beauty As by my faith, I see no more in you Then without Candle may go dark to bed: Must you be therefore proud and pitiless? Why what means this? why do you look on me? I see no more in you then in the ordinary Of Nature's sale-worke? 'ods my little life, I think she means to tangle my eyes too: No faith proud Mistress, hope not after it, 'Tis not your inky brows, your black silk hair, Your bugle eyeballs, nor your cheek of cream That can entame my spirits to your worship: You foolish Shepherd, wherefore do you follow her Like foggy South, puffing with wind and rain, You are a thousand times a properer man Than she a woman. 'Tis such fools as you That makes the world full of ill-favoured children: 'Tis not her glass, but you that flatters her, And out of you she sees herself more proper Than any of her lineaments can show her: But Mistress, know yourself down on your knees And thank heaven, fasting, for a good man's love; For I must tell you friendly in your ear, Sell when you can, you are not for all markets: Cry the man mercy, love him, take his offer, Fowl is most foul, being foul to be a scoffer. So take her to thee Shepherd, far you well. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a year together, I had rather here you chide, than this man woo. Heer fall'n in love with your foulness, & she'll Fall in love with my anger. If it be so, as fast As she answers thee with frowning looks, i'll sauce Her with bitter words: why look you so upon me? For no ill will I bear you. I pray you do not fall in love with me, For I am falser than vows made in wine: Besides, I like you not: if you will know my house, 'Tis at the tufft of Olives, here hard by: Will you go Sister? Shepheard ply her hard: Come Sister: Shepherdess, look on him better And be not proud, though all the world could see, None could be so abused in sight as he. Come, to our flock. Dead Shepherd, now I sinned thy saw of might, Who ever loved, that loved not at first sight? Sweet Phebe.
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)
O deere Phebe, If euer (as that euer may be neere) You meet in ſome freſh cheeke the power of fancie, Then ſhall you know the wounds inuiſible That Loues keene arrows make. But till that time Come not thou neere me: and when that time comes, Afflict me with thy mockes, pitty me not, As till that time I ſhall not pitty thee. And why I pray you? who might be your mother That you inſult, exult, and all at once Ouer the wretched? what though you hau no beauty As by my faith, I ſee no more in you Then without Candle may goe darke to bed: Muſt you be therefore prowd and pittileſſe? Why what meanes this? why do you looke on me? I ſee no more in you then in the ordinary Of Natures ſale-worke? 'ods my little life, I thinke ſhe meanes to tangle my eies too: No faith proud Miſtreſſe, hope not after it, 'Tis not your inkie browes, your blacke ſilke haire, Your bugle eye-balls, nor your cheeke of creame That can entame my ſpirits to your worſhip: You fooliſh Shepheard, wherefore do you follow her Like foggy South, puffing with winde and raine, You are a thouſand times a properer man Then ſhe a woman. 'Tis ſuch fooles as you That makes the world full of ill-fauourd children: 'Tis not her glaſſe, but you that flatters her, And out of you ſhe ſees her ſelfe more proper Then any of her lineaments can ſhow her: But Miſtris, know your ſelfe downe on your knees And thanke heauen, faſting, for a good mans loue; For I muſt tell you friendly in your eare, Sell when you can, you are not for all markets: Cry the man mercy, loue him, take his offer, Foule is moſt foule, being foule to be a ſcoffer. So take her to thee Shepheard, fare you well. Sweet youth, I pray you chide a yere together, I had rather here you chide, then this man wooe. Hee falne in loue with your foulneſſe, & ſhee'll Fall in loue with my anger. If it be ſo, as faſt As ſhe anſweres thee with frowning lookes, ile ſauce Her with bitter words: why looke you ſo vpon me? For no ill will I beare you. I pray you do not fall in loue with mee, For I am falſer then vowes made in wine: Beſides, I like you not: if you will know my houſe, 'Tis at the tufft of Oliues, here hard by: Will you goe Siſter? Shepheard ply her hard: Come Siſter: Shepheardeſſe, looke on him better And be not proud, though all the world could ſee, None could be ſo abus'd in ſight as hee. Come, to our flocke. Dead Shepheard, now I ſind thy ſaw of might, Who euer lov'd, that lou'd not at firſt ſight? Sweet Phebe.