Monsieur Thomas (Father's Own Son) · chunk 7 of 42
Fletcher, John · published 1639 · first performed or written 1615 [1610-c.1616] (Annals) comedy · Unknown · Blackfriars T11 Siblings, kin and confidants typicality 0.79 · 492 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T11: sister, brother, love, friend, heart, father, mother, woman, lord, hear.
I do not counsel that, see him reclaimed first, Which will not prove a miracle, yet Marry I am afraid 'twill vex thee horribly To stay so long. No, no Aunt, no believe me. What was your dream to night? for I observed ye Hugging of me; with good, dear, sweet Tom. Fie Aunt, Upon my conscience. On my word 'tis true wench: And then ye kissed me Marry, more than once too, And sighed, and O sweet Tom again: nay, do not blush, Ye have it at the heart wench. I'll be hanged first, But you must have your way. And so will you too, Or break down hedges for it: Dorothea, The welcomest woman living: how does thy brother? I hear he's turned a wondrous civil gentleman Since his short travel. Pray heaven he make it good Alice. How do ye friend, I have a quarrel to ye, Ye stole away, and left my company. O pardon me, dear friend, it was to welcome A brother, that I have some cause to love well. Prithee how is he? thou speak'st truth. Not perfect: I hope he will be. Never: has forgot me, I hear wench, and his hot love too: Thou wouldst howl then. And I am glad it should be so; his travels Have yielded him variety of Mistresses, Fairer in his eye far. O cogging rascal. I was a fool, but better thoughts I thank heaven. Pray do not think so, for he loves you dearly, Upon my troth most firmly: would fain see you. See me friend? do you think it fit? It may be, Without the loss of credit too: he's not Such a prodigious thing, so monstrous, To fling from all society. His so much contrary To my desires, such an antipathy That I must sooner see my grave. Dear friend, He was not so before he went. I grant it, For than I daily hoped his fair conversion. Come, do not mask yourself, but see him freely, Ye have a mind. That mind I'll master then. And is your hate so mortal? Not to his person, But to his qualities, his madcap follies, Which still like Hydra's heads grow thicker on him. I have a credit friend, and maids of my sort, Love where their modesties may live untainted. I give up that hope then: pray, for your friend's sake, If I have any interest within ye, Do but this courtesy, accept this Letter. From him? The same: 'tis but a minutes reading, And as we look on shapes of painted devils, Which for the present may disturb our fancy, But with the next new object lose 'em, so If this be foul, ye may forget it, 'pray: Have ye seen it friend? I will not lie: I have not, But I presume, so much he honours you, The worst part of himself was cast away When to his best part he writ this.
nodes 413–485 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 7 of 42 in this edition
Length
492 words · 654 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T11 — Siblings, kin and confidantscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.795 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T15 · seed 44: T12 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I doe not counſell that, ſee him reclaim'd firſt, Which will not prove a miracle, yet Mary I am afraid 'twill vexe thee horribly To ſtay ſo long. No, no Aunt, no beleeve me. What was your dreame to night? for I obſerv'd ye Hugging of me; with good, deere, ſweet Tom. Fye Aunt, Vpon my conſcience. On my word 'tis true wench: And then ye kiſs'd me Mary, more then once too, And ſigh'd, and O ſweet Tom againe: nay, doe not bluſh, Ye have it at the heart wench. I'le be hang'd firſt, But you muſt have your way. And ſo will you too, Or breake down hedges for it: Dorothea, The welcom'ſt woman living: how do's thy brother? I heare he's turn'd a wondrous civill gentleman Since his ſhort travell. Pray heaven he make it good Alice. How doe ye friend, I have a quarrell to ye, Ye ſtole away, and left my company. O pardon me, deere friend, it was to welcome A brother, that I have ſome cauſe to love well. Prethee how is he? thou ſpeakſt truth. Not perfect: I hope he will be. Never: ha's forgot me, I heare wench, and his hot love too: Thou wouldſt howle then. And I am glad it ſhould be ſo; his travels Have yeelded him variety of Miſtreſſes, Fairer in his eye farre. O cogging raſcall. I was a foole, but better thoughts I thank heaven. Pray do not think ſo, for he loves you deerely, Vpon my troth moſt firmely: would faine ſee you. See me friend? doe you thinke it fit? It may be, Without the loſſe of credit too: he's not Such a prodigious thing, ſo monſtrous, To fling from all ſociety. His ſo much contrary To my deſires, ſuch an antipathy That I muſt ſooner ſee my grave. Deere friend, He was not ſo before he went. I grant it, For then I daily hop'd his faire converſion. Come, do not maske your ſelfe, but ſee him freely, Ye have a minde. That minde I'le maſter then. And is your hate ſo mortall? Not to his perſon, But to his qualities, his mad-cap follies, Which ſtill like Hydras heads grow thicker on him. I have a credit friend, and maids of my ſort, Love where their modeſties may live untainted. I give up that hope then: pray, for your friends ſake, If I have any intereſt within ye, Doe but this courteſie, accept this Letter. From him? The ſame: 'tis but a minutes reading, And as we looke on ſhapes of painted divels, Which for the preſent may diſturb our fancy, But with the next new object looſe 'em, ſo If this be foule, ye may forget it, 'pray: Have ye ſeene it friend? I will not lye: I have not, But I preſume, ſo much he honours you, The worſt part of himſelfe was caſt away When to his beſt part he writ this.