Ford, John · published 1639 · first performed or written 1638 [licensed for stage, May 3] (Annals) not in BritDrama · Phoenix/Cockpit unassigned nearest T16 Gallantry: ladies, lordships and complim · 504 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T16: lady, madam, gentleman, lordship, ladies, honour, mistress, sweet, court, servant.
Wench said ye, most mechanically? faugh! Wench is your trull, your blower, your dowdy, but (Sir brother) he who names my Queen of love Without his bonnet veiled, or saying grace, As at Some paranymphal feast, is rude, Nor versed in literature, Dame Amoretta, Lo, I am sworn thy Champion. So am I too. Can as occasion serves, if she turn scurvy, Unswear myself again, and ne'er change colours. Pish man, the best, though call 'em, ladies, madames, Fairs, fines, and honeys, are but flesh and blood, And now and then too, when the fits come on 'em, Will prove themselves but flirts, and tirlery puffkins. Our choler must advance. Dost long for a beating? Shalls try a slash, here's that shall do't: I'll tap A gallon of thy brains, and fill thy hogshead With two of wine for't. Not in friendship brother, Or whistle thee into an ague; hang't, Be sociable: drink till we roar and scratch; Then drink ourselves asleep again. The fashion! Thou dost not know the fashion. Her fair eyes, Like to a pair of pointed beams drawn from The sun's most glorious Orb, does dazzle sight, Audacious to gaze there; then over those A several bow of jet securely twines In semicircles under them two banks Of roses red and white, divided by An arch of polished Ivory, surveying A temple from whence Oracles proceed, More gracious than Apollo's, more desired Than amorous songs of Poets, softly tuned. hay day, what's this? Oh, but those other parts, all— All: Hold there, I bar play under board, My part yet lies therein; you never saw The things you wire-draw thus. I have dreamt Of every part about her, can lay open Her several inches, as exactly (mark it) As if I had took measure with a compass, A rule, or yard, from head to foot. Oh rare, And all this in a dream. A very dream. My waking brother Souldier is tumd Into a sleeping Carpenter or tailor, Which goes for half a man— what's he? bear up? Death of reputation, the wheel, strappado, galleys, Rack, are ridiculous fopperies; goblins to Fright babies: poor lean-souled rogues, they Will swoon at the scar of a pin: one tear Dropped from their harlots eyes, breeds earthquakes In their bones. Bless us, a monster patched of dagger bombast, His eyes like Copper-basons, a' has changed Hair with a shag dog. Let us then avoid him, Or stand upon our guard; the foe approaches. Cutthroats by the score abroad, come home, and rot in fripperies, brave man at arms. Go turn pander do, stalk for a mess of warm broth: damnable, honourable cuts are but badges for a fool to vaunt, the raw ribbed Apothecary poisons cum privilegio, and is paid. Oh the commonwealth of beasts is most politicly ordered. Brother, we'll keep aloof, there is no valour In tugging with a man fiend I defy him. It gabbles like I know not what, believe it, The fellows a shrewd fellow at a pink.
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)
Wench ſaid yee, moſt mechanically? faugh! VVench is your trull, your blowe, your dowdie, but (Sir brother) he who names my Queene of love Without his bonnet vaild, or ſaying grace, As at Some paranymphall feaſt, is rude, Nor verſt in literature, Dame Amoretta, Lo, I am ſworne thy Champion. So am I too. Can as occaſion ſerves, if ſhe turne ſcurvie, Vnſweare my ſelfe again, and nere change colours. Piſh man, the beſt, though call em, ladies, madames, Faires, fines, and honies, are but fleſh and bloud, And now and then too, when the fis come on 'em, Will prove themſelves but flirts, and tirliry pufkins. Our choler muſt advance. Doſt long for a beating? Shalls try a ſlaſh, heres that ſhall do't: Ile tap A gallon of thy braines, and fill thy hogſhead With two of wine for't. Not in friendſhip brother, Or whiſtle thee into an ague; hang't, Be ſociable: drinke till we rore and ſcratch; Then drinke our ſelves aſleepe agen. The faſhion! Thou doſt not know the faſhion. Her faire eyes, Like to a paire of pointed beames drawne from The Sunnes moſt glorious Orbe, does dazle ſight, Audacious to gaze there; then over thoſe A ſeverall bow of jet ſecurely twines In ſemicircles under them two bankes Of roſes red and white, divided by An arch of poliſhe Ivotle, ſurveying A temple from whence Oracles proceed, More gracious than Apollos, more deſir'd Than amorous ſongs of Poets, ſoftly tun'd. Hey day, what's this? Oh, but thoſe other parts, all— All: Hold there, I barre play under boord, My part yet lies therein; you never ſaw The things you wier-draw thus. I have dream't Of every part about her, can lay open Her ſeverall inches, as exactly (marke it) As if I had tooke meaſure with a compaſſe, A rule, or yard, from head to foot. Oh rare, And all this in a dreame. A very dreame. My waking brother Souldier is tumd Into a ſleeping Carpenter or Taylor, Which goes for halfe a man—whats he? beare up? Death of reputation, the wheele, ſtrappado, gallies, Racke, are ridiculous fopperies; goblins to Fright babies: poore lean-ſould rogues, they Will ſwowne at the ſcarre of a pinne: one teare Dropt from their harlots eyes, breeds earth-quakes In their bones. Bleſſe us, a monſter patcht of dagger bumbaſt, His eyes like Copper-baſons, a' has chang'd Haire with a ſhagge dogge. Let us then avoyd him, Or ſtand upon our guard; the foe approches. Cut-throats by the ſcore abroad, come home, and rot in fripperies, brave man at armes. Goe turne pandor doe, ſtalke for a meſſe of warme broath: damnable, honourable cuts are but badges for a fool to vaunt, the raw rib'd Apothecarie poyſons cum privilegio, and is payd. Oh the common-wealth of beaſts is moſt politickly ordered. Brother, wee'l keep aloofe, there is no valour In tugging with a man fiend I d. fie him. It gabbles like I know not what, believe it, The fellowes a ſhrewd fellow at a pink.