Dekker, Thomas · published 1636 · first performed or written 1631 [1619-1631] (Annals) comedy · Prince Charles's Men (first) (?) unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 499 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
With anger at thy snarling must my hose Match your old greasy codpiece? No, but I'd have thee live in compass. Fool, I'll be As the sun in the Zodiac; I am he That wood take Phaeton's fall, tho' I set fire On the whole world to be heaven's charioteer, (As he was) but one day. Vain riotous coxcomb, thou'st fired to much already, Parks, Forests, chases, Have no part left of them, but names and places; 'Tis voiced abroad thy lands are all at pawn. They are, what then? And that the money went to Entertain the pope's great Nuntio, On whom you spent the ransom of a king. You lie. I thank you Sir, Say all this true That I spent millions, what's that to you. Were there for every day i'th' year a Pope, For every hour i'th' year a Cardinal; I'd melt both Indies, but I'd feast'em all. And leave your courtesans bare, that leaving bare, Will one day leave thee naked, one nights waking, With a fresh-whore, cost thee 4000. ducats, Else the bawd lies. Wert thou not mine uncle I'd send thee with thy frozen-beard where furies Should singe it off with firebrands, touching Wenching, that art thyself an old rotten whoremaster. I a whoremaster? To show how much I hate it, hark, when next thy tumblers Come to dance upon the ropes, Play this jig to 'em. Go, go, idle drone, Thou enviest bees with stings, because thine is gone, Plate, jewels, revenues all shall fly. They shall. And then Sir I'll turn pickled thief, a Pirate, For as I to feed Rayot, a world did crave, So nothing but the sea shall be my grave, Mean time that circle few began i've run, tho' the Devil stand i'th' Centre. What's that circle? The vanity of all mankind be mine, In me all prodigals looseness fresh shall flow, Wine, harlots, surfeits, rich embroidered clothes, Fashions, all sensual sins, all new coined oaths, Shall feed me, fill me; I'll feast every sense, Nought shall become me ill, but innocence. I hope a wallet hanging at thy back, Who spends all young, ere age comes, all will lack. What sounds this trumpet for? Dinner my Lord, To feast whom this day are my tables spread? For seamen, wracked, aged, or sick, or lame, And the late ransomed captives from the Turk. Cheer them with hearty welcomes in my name, Attend them as great Lords, let no man dare, To send'em sad hence, bounty shall be placed At the boards upper end; For Mariners Are clocks of danger that do ne'er stand still, Their dials-hand ere points toth' stroke of death, And (albeit seldom windless) lose their breath; I love'em, for they eat the dearest bread, That life can buy, when the elements make wars; Water and air, they are said by their good stars. And for the galley-slaves, make much of those, love that man Who suffers only for being christian; What suitors wait?
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)
With anger at thy snarling must my hoase Match your old greasy cod-piece? No, but I'de have thee live in compasse. Foole, I'le be As the sun in the Zodiack; I am he That wood take Phaetons fall, tho' I set fire On the whole world to be heavens charioteire, (As he was) but one day. Vaine riotous cockscombe, Tha'st fier'd to much already, Parkes, Forrests, chases, Have no part left of them, but names and places; 'Tis voic'd abroad thy lands are all at pawne. They are, what then? And that the mony went to Entertaine the Popes great Nuntio, On whom you spent the ransome of a king. You lye. I thanke you Sr, Say all this true That I spent millions, what's that to you. Were there for every day i'th'yeare a Pope, For every houre i'th'yeare a Cardinall; I'd melt both Indies, but I'de feast'em all. And leave your Curtezans bare, that leaving bare, Will one day leave thee naked, one nights waking, With a fresh-whore, cost thee 4000. duckets, Else the bawd lies. Wert thou not mine uncle I'de send thee with thy frozen-beard where furies Should sindge it off with fire-brands, touching Wenching, that art thy selfe an old rotten whore-master. I a whore-master? To shew how much I hate it, harke, when next thy tomblers Come to dance upon the ropes, Play this jigg to 'em. Goe, goe, idle droane, Thou enviest bees with stings, because thine is gone, Plate, jewells, revenues all shall flie. They shall. And then Sir I'le turne pickled theefe, a Pirate, For as I to feed Rayot, a world did crave, So nothing but the sea shall be my grave, Meane time that circle few began l've runne, tho' the Devill stand i'th' Center. What's that circle? The vanitie of all man-kinde be mine, In me all prodigalls loosenes fresh shall flowe, Wine, harlots, surfetts, rich embroidered cloaths, Fashions, all sensuall sins, all new coin'd oathes, Shall feed me, fill me; Ile feast every sence, Nought shall become me ill, but innocence. I hope a wallet hanging at thy backe, Who spends all young, ere age comes, all will lacke. What sounds this trumpet for? Dinner my Lord, To feast whome this day are my tables spread? For sea-men, wrack't, aged, or sicke, or lame, And the late ransom'd captives from the Turke. Cheere them with harty welcomes in my name, Attend them as great Lords, let no man dare, To send'em sad hence, bounty shall be plac'd At the boards upper end; For Marriners Are clocks of danger that do ne're stand still, Their dialls-hand ere points to'th stroke of death, And (albeit seldome windlesse) loose their breath; I love'em, for they eat the dearest bread, That life can buy, when the elements make warrs; Water and aire, they are sayd by their good starrs. And for the gally-slaves, make much of those, love that man Who suffers onely for being christian; What suiters waite?