Fletcher, John / Massinger, Philip · published 1637 · first performed or written 1625(?) (Annals) comedy · King's Men · Blackfriars T35 Fools, wit and railing typicality 0.79 · 495 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
I say no, Unless Charles had a soul to understand it, Can he manage six thousand Crowns a year Out of the metaphysics? or can all His learned Astronomy look to my Vineyards? Can the drunken old Poets make up my Vines? (I know they can drink ''em) or your excellent humanists Sell 'em the Merchants for my best advantage? Can History cut my hay, or get my Corn in? And can Geometry vent it in the market? Shall I have my sheep kept with a Iacobs staff now? I wonder you will magnify this mad man, You that are old and should understand. Should, sayst thou, Thou monstrous piece of ignorance in office! Thou that hast no more knowledge than thy Clerk infuses, Thy dapper Clerk larded with ends of Latin, And he no more than custom of offences; Thou unreprieveable Dunce! that thy formal bandstrings, Thy ring nor pomander cannot expiate for, Dost thou tell me I should? I'll pose thy Worship In thine own Library and Almanac, Which thou art daily poring on to pick out Days of iniquity to cozen fools in, And full Moons to cut Cattle; dost thou taint me, That have run over story, Poetry, Humanity? As a cold nipping shadow Does o'er the ears of Corn, and leave 'em blasted, Put up your anger, what I'll do I'll do. Thou shalt not do. I will. Thou art an Ass then, A dull old tedious Ass, th' art ten times worse And of less credit than Dunce Hollingshead The Englishman, that writes of snows and Sheriffs. Well take your pleasure, here's one I must talk with. Good day Sir. Fair to you Sir. May I speak w' ye. With all my heart, I was waiting on your goodness. Good morrow Monsieur Miramont. O sweet Sir, Keep your good morrow to cool your worship's pottage, A couple of the world's fools met together To raise up dirt and dunghills. Are they drawn? They shall be ready Sir, within these two hours, And Charles set his hand. 'Tis necessary, For he being a joint purchaser, though your state Was got by your own industry, unless He seal to the Conveyance, it can be Of no validity. He shall be ready, And do it willingly. He shall be hanged first. I hope your daughter likes. She loves him well Sir, Young Eustace is a bait to catch a woman, A budding sprightly fellow, y'are resolved then, That all shall pass from Charles. All all, he's nothing, A bunch of books shall be his patrimony, And more than he can manage too. Will your brother Pass over his land too, to your son Eustace? You know he has no heir. He will be flayed first. And horse-collars made of 's skin! Let him alone, A wilful man; my state shall serve the turn, Sir. And how does your Daughter? Ready for the hour, And like a blushing Rose that stays the pulling.
nodes 610–684 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 10 of 39 in this edition
Length
495 words · 663 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T35 — Fools, wit and railingcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.794 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T9 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I say no, Unlesse Charles had a soule to understand it, Can he manage sixe thousand Crownes a yeere Out of the metaphysicks? or can all His learn'd Astronomy looke to my Vineyards? Can the drunken old Poets make up my Vines? (I know they can drinke'm) or your excellent humanists Sell 'm the Merchants for my best advantage? Can History cut my hay, or get my Corne in? And can Geometrie vent it in the market? Shall I have my sheepe kept with a Iacobs staffe now? I wonder you will magnifie this mad man, You that are old and should understand. Should, sai'st thou, Thou monstrous peece of ignorance in office! Thou that hast no more knowledge than thy Clerke infuses, Thy dapper Clerke larded with ends of Latin, And he no more than custome of offences; Thou unreprieveable Dunce! that thy formall bandstrings, Thy ring nor pomander cannot expiate for, Do'st thou tell me I should? Ile pose thy Worship In thine owne Library and Almanacke, Which thou art dayly poring on to picke out Dayes of iniquity to cozen fooles in, And full Moones to cut Cattell; do'st thou taint me, That have runne over story, Poetry, Humanity? As a cold nipping shadow Does ore the eares of Corne, and leave 'em blasted, Put up your anger, what Ile doe Ile doe. Thou shalt not doe. I will. Thou art an Asse then, A dull old tedious Asse, th' art ten times worse And of lesse credit than Dunce Hollingshead The Englishman, that writes of snowes and Sheriffes. Well take your pleasure, here's one I must talke with. Good day Sir. Faire to you Sir. May I speake w' yee. With all my heart, I was waiting on your goodnesse. Good morrow Monsieur Miramont. O sweet Sir, Keepe your good morrow to coole your Worships pottage, A couple of the worlds fooles met together To raise up dirt and dunghils. Are they drawne? They shall be ready Sir, within these two houres, And Charles set his hand. 'Tis necessary, For he being a joint purchaser, though your state Was got by your owne industrie, unlesse He seale to the Conveyance, it can be Of no validity. He shall be ready, And doe it willingly. He shall be hang'd first. I hope your daughter likes. She loves him well Sir, Young Eustace is a bait to catch a woman, A budding spritely fellow, y'are resolv'd then, That all shall passe from Charles. All all, hee's nothing, A bunch of bookes shall be his patrimony, And more than he can manage too. Will your brother Passe over his land too, to your sonne Eustace? You know he has no heire. He will be flead first. And horse-collers made of 's skin! Let him alone, A wilfull man; my state shall serve the turne, Sir. And how does your Daughter? Ready for the houre, And like a blushing Rose that staies the pulling.