Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T59: andrea, spain, portugal, tribute, horatio, king, bellimperia, prince, lord, lorenzo.
The King, the Contract! There's cud enough for you to chew upon. What's this? a riddle! how? the King, the Contract! The mischief I divine, which proving true, Shall kindle fires in Spain to melt his Crown Even from his head: here's the decree of Fate, A black deed must a black deed expiate. THou god of good Apparel, what strange fellows Are bound to do thee honour! mercer's books Show men's devotions to thee; heaven cannot hold A Saint so stately: Do not my Dons know me Because I'm poor in clothes? stood my beaten tailor Plaiting my rich hose, my silk stocking-man Drawing upon my Lordship's Courtly calf Pairs of Embroidered things, whose golden clocks Strike deeper to the faithful shopkeepers heart Than into mine to pay him.— Had my Barbour Perfumed my lousy thatch here, and poked out Me Tusks more stiff than are a cat's muschatoes, These pied-winged Butterflies had known me then: Another flyboat Save thee, Illustrious Don. Sir is the King at leisure to speak Spanish With a poor Soldier? No. No, sirrah, you, no! You DONE with th'ochre face, I wish to ha' thee But on a Breach, stifling with smoke and fire, And for thy No, but whiffing Gunpowder Out of an Iron pipe, I wooed but ask thee If thou wouldst on, and if thou didst cry No, Thou shouldst read Canon-Law, I'd make thee roar, And wear cut-beaten-satin; I wooed pay thee Though thou payest not thy Mercer: mere Spanish jennets, signior is the King at leisure? To do what? To hear a Soldier speak. I am no earpicker To sound his hearing that way. Are you of Court, Sir? Yes, the king's Barber. That's his earpicker: your name, I pray. Don Cockadilio: If, Soldier, thou hast suits to beg at Court, I shall descend so low as to betray Thy paper to the hand Royal. I beg, you whoreson muscod! my petition Is written on my bosom in red wounds. I am no Barbar-Surgeon. You yellow hammer, why shaver: That such poor things as these, only made up Of tailor's shreds and Merchants silken rags, And Pothecary drugs to lend their breath Sophisticated smells, when their rank guts Stink worse than cowards in the heat of battle; Such whalebond-doublet-rascals, that owe more To Laundresses and Sempsters for laced Linen Then all their race from their great grandfather To this their reign, in clothes were ever worth: These excrements of Silkworms! oh that such flies Do buzz about the beams of Majesty! Like earwigs, tickling a king's yielding ear With that Court-Organ (Flattery) when a soldier Must not come near the Court gates twenty score, But stand for want of clothes, (though he win Towns) Amongst the Almesbasket-men! his best reward Being scorned to be a fellow to the black guard: Why should a Soldier (being the world's right arm) Be cut thus by the left? (a Courtier?) Is the world all Ruff and Feather, and nothing else? shall I never see a tailor give his coat with a difference from a Gentleman?
seed 43: T61 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
The King, the Contract! There's cud enough for you to chew upon. What's this? a riddle! how? the King, the Contract! The mischiefe I divine, which proving true, Shall kindle fires in Spaine to melt his Crowne Even from his head: here's the decree of Fate, A blacke deed must a blacke deed expiate. THou god of good Apparell, what strange fellowes Are bound to doe thee honour! Mercers books Shew mens devotions to thee; heaven cannot hold A Saint so stately: Doe not my Dons know me Because I'me poore in clothes? stood my beaten Taylor Playting my rich hose, my silke stocking-man Drawing upon my Lordships Courtly calfe Payres of Imbroydred things, whose golden clockes Strike deeper to the faithfull shop-keepers heart Than into mine to pay him.—Had my Barbour Perfum'd my louzy thatch here, and poak'd out Me Tuskes more stiffe than are a Cats muschatoes, These pide-wing'd Butterflyes had knowne me then Another flye-boat thee, Illustrious Don. Sir is the King at leisure to speake Spanish With a poore Sculdier? No. No, sirrah, you, no! You Don with th'oaker face, I wish to ha thee But on a Breach, stifling with smoke and fire, And for thy No, but whiffing Gunpowder Out ofan Iron pipe, I woo'd but aske thee If thou wood'st on, and if thou didst cry No, Thou shudst read Canon-Law, I'de make thee roare, And weare cut-beaten-sattyn; I woo'd pay thee Though thou payst not thy Mercer: meere Spanish Iennes, Signeor is the King at leisure? To doe what? To heare a Souldier speake. I am no eare-picker To sound his hearing that way. Are you of Court, Sir? Yes, the Kings Barber. That's his eare-picker: your name, I pray. Don Cockadilio: If, Souldier, thou hast suits to begge at Court, I shall descend so low as to betray Thy paper to the hand Royall. I begge, you whorson muscod! my petition Is written on my bosome in red wounds. I am no Barbar-Surgeon. You yellow hammer, why shaver: That such poore things as these, onely made up Of Taylors shreds and Merchants silken rags, And Pothecary drugs to lend their breath Sophisticated smells, when their ranke guts Stinke worse than cowards in the heat of battaile; Such whalebond-doublet-rascals, that owe more To Landresses and Sempsters for laced Linnen Then all their race from their great grand-father To this their reigne, in clothes were ever worth: These excrements of Silke-wormes! oh that such flyes Doe buzze about the beames of Majesty! Like earwigs, tickling a Kings yeelding eare With that Court-Organ (Flattery) when a souldier Must not come neere the Court gates twenty score, But stand for want of clothes, (tho he win Townes) Amongst the Almesbasket-men! his best reward Being scorn'd to be a fellow to the blacke gard: Why shud a Souldier (being the worlds right arme) Be cut thus by the left? (a Courtier?) Is the world all Ruffe and Feather, and nothing else? shall I never see a Taylor give his coat with a disterence from a Gentleman?