Fletcher, John / Massinger, Philip · published 1637 · first performed or written 1625(?) (Annals) comedy · King's Men · Blackfriars T52 Prodigals, portions and poor kin typicality 0.81 · 490 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T52: brother, father, uncle, cousin, son, poor, bread, old, given, master.
Tomorrow, then 's the day. Why then tomorrow I'll bring the Girl, get you the Writings ready. But hark you Monsieur, have you the virtuous conscience To help to rob an heir, an Elder Brother Of that which nature and the Law flings on him? You were your father's eldest son, I take it, And had his Land, would you had had his wit too, Or his discretion to consider nobly, What 'tis to deal unworthly in these things; You'll say he's none of yours, he's his son, And he will say, he is no son to inherit Above a shelf of Books; Why did he get him? Why was he brought up to write and read and know things? Why was he not like his father, a dumb Justice? A flat dull piece of phlegm, shaped like a man, A reverend I doll in a piece of auras? Can you lay disobedience, want of manners, Or any capital crime to his charge? I do not, Nor do not weigh your words, they bite not me, Sir, This man must answer. I have done't already, And given sufficient reason to secure me: And so good morrow brother to your patience. Good morrow Monsieur Miramont. Good nightcaps Keep your brains warm, or Maggots will breed in 'em. Well Charles, thou shalt not want to buy thee books yet, The fairest in thy study are my gift, And the University Louvain for thy sake, Hath tasted of my bounty, and to vex Th' old doting fool thy father, and thy brother, They shall not share a Solz of mine between them; Nay more, I'll give thee eight thousand Crowns a year, In some high strain to write my Epitaph. How do I look now to my elder Brother; Nay, 'tis a handsome Suit. All courtly, courtly. I'll assure ye Gentlemen, my Tailor has travailed, And speaks as lofty language in his bills too, The cover of an old Book would not show thus. Fie, fie, what things these Academics are, These bookworms, how they look! Th' are mere Images, No gentle motion nor behaviour in 'em, They'll prattle ye of primum mobile, And tell a story of the state of Heaven, What Lords and Ladies govern in such houses, And what wonders they do when they meet together, And how they spit snow, fire, and hail like a Juggler, And make a noise when they are drunk, which we call Thunder. They are the sneaking'st things, and the contemptiblest; Such small beer brains, but ask'em any thing Out of the Element of their understanding, And they stand gaping like a roasted Pig; Do they know what a Court is or a Council, Or how th' affairs of Christendom are managed? Do they know any thing but a tired hackney? And they cry absurd as the Horse understood'em. They have made a fair youth of your elder brother, A pretty piece of flesh.
seed 43: T52 · seed 44: T52 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Tomorrow, then 's the day. Why then to morrow Ile bring the Girle, get you the Writings ready. But harke you Monsieur, have you the vertuous conscience To helpe to robbe an heire, an Elder Brother Of that which nature and the Law flings on him? You were your fathers eldest sonne, I take it, And had his Land, would you had had his wit too, Or his discretion to consider nobly, What 'tis to deale unworthly in these things; You'll say hee's none of yours, hee's his sonne, And he will say, he is no sonne to inherit Above a shelfe of Bookes; Why did he get him? Why was he brought up to write and reade and know things? Why was he not like his father, a dumbe Justice? A flat dull peece of flegme, shap'd like a man, A reverend I doll in a peece of auras? Can you lay disobedience, want of manners, Or any capitall crime to his charge? I doe not, Nor doe not weigh your words, they bite not me, Sir, This man must answer. I have don't already, And giv'n sufficient reason to secure me: And so good morrow brother to your patience. Good morrow Monsieur Miramont. Good nightcaps Keepe your braines warme, or Maggots will breed in 'm. Well Charles, thou shalt not want to buy thee bookes yet, The fairest in thy study are my gift, And the University Lovaine for thy sake, Hath tasted of my bounty, and to vexe Th' old doting foole thy father, and thy brother, They shall not share a S of mine betweene them; Nay more, Ile give thee eight thousand Crownes a yeere, In some high straine to write my Epitaph. How doe I looke now to my elder Brother; Nay, 'tis a handsome Suite. All courtly, courtly. Ile assure ye Gentlemen, my Tailor has travail'd, And speakes as lofty language in his bills too, The cover of an old Booke would not shew thus. Fye, fie, what things these Academicks are, These book-wormes, how they looke! Th' are meere Images, No gentle motion nor behaviour in 'em, They'll prattle yee of primum mobile, And tell a story of the state of Heaven, What Lords and Ladies governe in such houses, And what wonders they doe when they meet together, And how they spit snow, fire, and haile like a Jugler, And make a noise when they are drunke, which we call Thunder. They are the sneaking'st things, and the contemptiblest; Such small beere braines, but aske'em any thing Out of the Element of their understanding, And they stand gaping like a roasted Pig; Doe they know what a Court is or a Councell, Or how th' affaires of Christendome are manag'd? Doe they know any thing but a tyr'd hackney? And they cry absurd as the Horse understood'em. They have made a faire youth of your elder brother, A pretty peece of flesh.