W., J. · published 1637 · first performed or written 1626 [1625-1626] (Annals) history · Unknown T15 Friars and holy orders in plot typicality 0.65 · 481 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T15: friar, lord, holy, friars, robin, peggy, lacie, angelo, love, nun.
I know 'tis sweet Peggy, and because 'tis not a picture for every Painter to draw forth, let this curtain be pinned before it. Hang yare flee-flaps, na Scots woman is ashamed a that luke, that the master painter abuife guifes her, whare must I gang and now, fay, fay, fay, what lozel am I that am hurrand thus till and fra with swords and weapons, whay must backerd men gang fencing and flourishing about me, am I yare may-game? No Peggy, thouart my prisoner, but here's thy jail. Are ye my jailer? what kin been you to the hangman? senu you? where's he? wha is that foul loon among you, that must be my hangman? Here's no man here your hangman, or your jailor. Wha then be you? Your friends that hold you only in bonds of love. I reckand mickle your luife, fay upon sick luife, the awd felon thief, luif and the true man's siller as you luifand me, I'd rather be a Scotchman's whore, than an Englishman's waif, and be dreave toth' Kirke with helters. Tell me what proud Scot loves thee, what Scot dare touch thee now thouart Selby's? Hang thee, hang thee foul meazel'd loon, What Scuttishman dares guiff my love understood My case, on Gads dear earth yow sud no farther gange As butchers kie tooth the grund he sud yow bange. All mildness is in vain, take some rough course. Tothth' Church, away, I'll marry her there by force. Away with her. Yonder's Wallace, and's true. The Devil and's damn be't, budge not. O my luife these Southern Carls mickle wrang 'gainst me work, and now wad force me gang until the Kirke, and marry Selby, Wallace my Io not I. Unhand that beauteous prize, proud slave, 'tis mine. Slave! thouart a villain Selby. Are ye so brave. Look to my wench. Kill 'em. We are no Stares to die by dozens. Back, the quarrels mine, and if one single Scot proudest of your swarm dares answer me, step forth. Your first man I Sir. Hark Gentlemen, let not so slight a shower, Which yet lies hid and wrapped in one poor cloud, Be by rough winds (razed up by you) dispersed Into a general storm, to many eyes Of Scots and English shoots, quick lightning forth Already, but your absence will allay Those fires which else must kindle, get then away, Take shelter in yond tavern. Agreed. Look to my Peggie. Guard my love, he and I will only exchange cold words. Now Sir, your cold words. This Scotch lass I love. Is that all? Yes. I love her too, can any words more cold, Strike to your heart? Is she your wife? No. She's your whore. umh, neither. She gangs with me then. But the dew lekens not whither, If you can win her, wear her, she's wholly mine. She is?
seed 43: T19 · 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 know 'tis ſweet Peggy, and becauſe 'tis not a picture for every Painter to draw forth, let this curtaine be pind before it. Hange yare flee-flaps, na Scottis woeman is aſheamed a that luke, that the maſter painter abuife guifes her, whare mun I gang and now, fay, fay, fay, what loſſell am I that am hurrand thus till and fra with ſweards and wapins, whay mun backerd men gang fencing and floriſhing about me, am I yare may-game? No Peggy, th'art my priſoner, but here's thy jaile. Are yee my jalor? what kin bin you to the hangman? ſenu you? whare's hee? wha is that foule loone amang you, that mun be my hangman? Here's no man here your hangman, or your jailor. Wha then be you? Your friends that hold you only in bonds of love. I reckand mickle your luife, fay upon ſike luife, the awd fellon theef, luifand the true mans ſiller as you luifand me, I'de rather be a Scutchmans whore, then an Engliſhmans waife, and be dreave toth' Kirke with helters. Tell mee what proud Scot loves thee, what Scot dare touch thee now th'art Selbies? Hang thee, hang thee foule meazel'd lowne, What Scuttiſhman darres guiff my luif underſtood My caſe, on Gads deare earth yow ſud no farder gange As butchers kie toth the grund he ſud yow bange. All mildneſſe is in vain, take ſome rough courſe. Toth' Church, away, Ile marry her there by force. Away with her. Yonders Wallace, and's true. The Devill and's dambe bee't, budge not. O my luife theſe Sotherne Carles mickle wrang 'gainſt mee warcke, and now wad force mee gang untill the Kirke, and marry Selby, Wallace my Io not I. Vnhand that beauteous prize, proud ſlave, 'tis mine. Slave! th'art a villain Selby. Are ye ſo brave. Look to my wench. Kill 'em. We are no Stares to die by dozens. Back, the quarrels mine, and if one ſingle Scot proud'ſt of your ſwarme dares anſwer me, ſtep forth. Your firſt man I Sir. Harke Gentlemen, let not ſo ſleight a ſhowre, Which yet lies hid and wrapt in one poore cloud, Be by rough winds (raiz'd up by you) diſperſ'd Into a generall ſtorme, to many eyes Of Scots and Engliſh ſhoots, quick lightning forth Already, but your abſence will allay Thoſe fires which elſe muſt kindle, get then away, Take ſhelter in yon taverne. Agreed. Look to my Peggie. Guard my love, hee and I will onely exchange cold words. Now Sir, your cold words. This Scotch Laſle I love. Is that all? Yes. I love her too, can any words more cold, Strike to your heart? Is ſhe your wife? No. She's your whore. Vmh, neither. She gangs with me then. But the dew lekens not whither, If you can win her, weare her, ſhe's wholly mine. She is?