Fletcher, John / Massinger, Philip · published 1637 · first performed or written 1625(?) (Annals) comedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 456 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
Will ye so, will you, so, Sir? I'll make one to eat it, I may chance make you stagger too. No answer, Lily? One word about the linen; I'll be ready, And rest your worships still. And I'll rest w' ye, You shall see what rest 'twill be: Are ye so nimble: A man had need have ten pair of ears to watch you. Wait on your Master, for I know he wants ye, And keep him in his study, that the noise Do not molest him: I will not fail my Lily— Come in sweet hearts, all to their several duties. Are you kissing ripe, Sir? Double but my farm And kiss her till thy heart ache; these smock vermin, How eagerly they leap at old men's kisses, They lick their lips at profit, not at pleasure; And if 't were not for th' scurvy name of Cuckold, He should lie with her, I know she'll labour at length With a good Lordship. If he had a wife now, But that's all one, I'll fit him: I must up Unto my Master, he'll be mad with study. What noise is in this house, my head is broken, Within a Parenthesis, in every corner As if the earth were shaken with some strange Collect, There are stirs and motions, What Planet rules this house? Who's there? 'tis I Sir, faithful Andrew. Come near, And lay thine ear down, hear'st no noise? The Cooks Are chopping herbs and mince meat to make pies, And breaking Marrowbones— Can they set them again? Yes, yes, in broths and puddings, and they grow stronger For th'use of any man. What sque a king's that? Sure there is a massacre. Of Pigs and Geese Sir, And Turkeys for the spit. The Cooks are angry Sir, And that makes up the medley. Do they thus At every dinner? I ne'er marked them yet, Nor know who is a Cook. Th' are sometimes sober, And then they beat as gently as a Tabor. What loads are these? Meat, meat, Sir, for the Kitchen, And stinking fowls the Tenants have sent in, They'll ne'er be found out at a general eating, And there's fat Venison, Sir. What's that? Why deer, Those that men fatten for their private pleasures, And let their Tenants starve upon the Commons. I've read of deer, but yet I ne'er eat any. There's a fishmonger's boy with Caviar Sir, Anchoves and Potargo, to make ye drink. Sure these are modern, very modern meats, For I understand 'em not. No more does any man From Caca merda or a substance worse, Till they be greased with oil, and rubbed with onions, And then flung out of doors, they are rare Salads,
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)
Will ye so, will you, so, Sir? Ile make one to eate it, I may chance make you stagger too. No answer, Lilly? One word about the linnen; Ile be ready, And rest your worships still. And Ile rest w' yee, You shall see what rest 'twill be: Are ye so nimble: A man had need have ten paire of eares to watch you. Waite on your Master, for I know he wants ye, And keepe him in his study, that the noise Doe not molest him: I will not faile my Lilly— Come in sweet hearts, all to their severall duties. Are you kissing ripe, Sir? Double but my farme And kisse her till thy heart ake; these smocke vermin, How eagerly they leape at old mens kisses, They licke their lippes at profit, not at pleasure; And if 't were not for th' scurvie name of Cuckold, He should lye with her, I know shee'll labour at length With a good Lordship. If he had a wife now, But that's all one, Ile fit him: I must up Unto my Master, hee'll be mad with studie. What noise is in this house, my head is broken, Within a Parenthesis, in every corner As if the earth were shaken with some strange Collect, There are stirres and motions, What Planet rules this house? Who's there? Tis I Sir, faithfull Andrew. Come neere, And lay thine eare downe, hear'st no noise? The Cookes Are chopping hearbs and mince meat to make pies, And breaking Marrow-bones— Can they set them againe? Yes, yes, in brothes and puddings, and they grow stronger For th'use of any man. What sque a king's that? Sure there is a massacre. Of Pigs and Geese Sir, And Turkeys for the spit. The Cookes are angry Sir, And that makes up the medly. Doe they thus At every dinner? I nere mark'd them yet, Nor know who is a Cooke. Th' are sometimes sober, And then they beat as gently as a Tabor. What loades are these? Meate, meate, Sir, for the Kitchin, And stinking fowles the Tenants have sent in, They'll nere be found out at a generall eating, And there's fat Venison, Sir. What's that? Why Deere, Those that men fatten for their private pleasures, And let their Tenants starve upon the Commons. I've read of Deere, but yet I nere eate any. There's a Fishmongers boy with Caviar Sir, Anchoves and Potargo, to make ye drinke. Sure these are moderne, very moderne meates, For I understand 'em not. No more do's any man From Caca merda or a substance worse, Till they be greas'd with oyle, and rub'd with onions, And then flung out of doores, they are rare Sallads,