The Seven Champions of Christendom · chunk 21 of 43
Kirke, John · published 1638 · first performed or written 1635 [1634-1638] (Annals) romance · Red Bull Company (second) · Red Bull unassigned nearest T44 Drinking: wine, ale and taverns · 499 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T44: drink, wine, numps, ale, butler, pot, sing, moy, drunk, win.
Sweet fellow Coridon, give me't, I shall grow a Philosopher shortly if I fare of'is fashion: O the very steam of the three fat Oxen that my Master found boiling for the giant's dinner, which we killed, would have filled both our bellies for a Fortnight. Ha, three Oxen for one giant's dinner? Thou art mistaken sure; thou art not old enough to see a Giant, And could thy Master and thee kill him? Why there's the wit of a bell-wether; one? we killed a hundred: but talk I to thee, that wert never no Traveller since thou wilt not believe a truth, I'll hold my tongue, and fall to my teeth. Nay good fellow Suckabus be not angry, I do believe: What are those Giants? Prithee tell me? No jackalents, no Pigmies, no dwarfs. Nay, I do believe they are lusty fellows, And men of tall stomachs, they could never eat so much else, Three Oxen at one meal. Tush, a fasting-day's Medicum; but when he makes a Feast to stuff his abominable gut, three hundred Acres of Oats will scarce make Oatmeal to thicken his porridge-pot. Now the Devil choke him, For he's fitter far for hell, than to live here. Hell? what should he do there? he'd piss out their fire, and drown all the devils in his urine. O monstrous! marry bless me from him, I had thought They had not been much taller than some of our Guard. The Guard? Hum. still like a bell-wether? why he'll chop up two yeomen of the Guard like poached eggs at a spoonful: there's not a meal that he makes, but he will load ye two Dung-carts with the picking of his teeth. Bless us! Bless thee? why dost thou know what thou speak'st? No hurt I hope good fellow Suckabus: But how could you two kill this monstrous man? Why as we killed a great many more of 'em; we rid a Horseback into their bellies, made a Quintin. their hearts, and rod out at the Butt-hole end. That may be done indeed, this carries some show of truth. Why, didst thou think the rest were lies? No, no; Lord, what indiscretion people learn by Travail! I have heard my Master say, he was Page to a Knight erant they called old Dick, who has been six days together in the bottom of the Sea, and took tobacco 'mongst the sharks and such adventures, but none like this you speak of: traveled you e'er with him? I had more wit i'faith; I deal in no waterworks. But pray tell me now, what stature might this man be you killed? His stature? Let me not lie, he was not the biggest that ere we killed, let me tell ye that, he was just about that stature that Tuttle-field would fitly make a Grave for: I have told ye of a place before; 'tis near London in England, where men go a Training to get 'em good stomachs.
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)
Sweet fellow Coridon, give me't, I ſhal grow a Phioſopher ſhortly if I fare o'this faſhion: O the very ſteame of the three fat Oxen that my Maſter found boyling for the Gyants dinner, which we kill'd, would have fill'd both our bellies for a Fortnight. Ha, three Oxen for one Gyants dinner? Thou art miſtaken ſure; thou art not old enough to ſee a Giant, And could thy Maſter and thee kill him? Why there's the wit of a Bell-weather; one? we kill'd a hundred: but talke I to thee, that wert never no Traveller ſince thou wilt not beleeve a truth, Ile hold my tongue, and fall to my teeth. Nay good fellow Suckabus be not angry, I doe beleeve: What are thoſe Gyants? Prithee tell me? No Iackalents, no Pigmies, no Dwarfes. Nay, I doe beleeve they are luſty fellows, And men of tall ſtomacks, they could never eate ſo much elſe, Three Oxen at one meale. Tuſh, a Faſting-dayes Medicum; but when he makes a Feaſt to ſtuffe his abhominable gut, three hundred Acres of Oates will ſcarſe make Oate-meale to thicken his porridge-pot. Now the Devill choake him, For hee's fitter farrefor hell, than to live here. Hell? what ſhould he doe there? hee'd piſſe out their fire, and drowne all the devills in his urine. O monſtrous! marry bleſſe me from him, I had thought They had not beene much taller than ſome of our Guard. The Guard? Hum, ſtill like a Bell-weather? why hee'le chop up two yeomen of the Guard like pocht egges at a ſpoonefull: there's not a meale that he makes, but hee will load yee two Dung-carts with the picking of his teeth. Bleſſe us! Bleſſe thee? why doſt thou know what thou ſpeak'ſt? No hurt I hope good fellow Suckabus: But how could you two kill this monſtrous man? Why as we killd a great many more of 'em; wee rid a Horſeback into their bellies, made a Quintin of their hearts, and rod out at the But-hole end. That may be done indeed, this carries ſome ſhew of truth. Why, didſt thou thinke the reſt were lies? No, no; Lord, what indiſcretion people learne by Travaile! I have heard my Maſter ſay, hee was Page to a Knight erant they call'd old Dick, who ha's bin ſixe dayes together in the bottome of the Sea, and tooke Tobacko 'mongſt the ſharkes and ſuch adventures, but none like this you ſpeake of: Travell'd you e're with him? I had more wit yfaith; I deale in no water-workes. But pray tell me now, what ſtature might this man be you kill'd? His ſtature? Let me not lye, he was not the biggeſt that e're we kill'd, let me tell yee that, he was juſt about that ſtature that Tuttle-field would fitly make a Grave for: I have told yee of a place before; 'tis neare London in England, where men goe a Trayning to get 'em good ſtomacks.