Monsieur Thomas (Father's Own Son) · chunk 8 of 42
Fletcher, John · published 1639 · first performed or written 1615 [1610-c.1616] (Annals) comedy · Unknown · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T49 Wooing a mistress: suitors, go-betweens · 496 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T49: mistress, gentleman, love, lady, woman, pray, gentlewoman, hear, honest, way.
For your sake, Not that I any way shall like his scribbling. A shrewd dissembling quean. I thank ye dear friend, I know she loves him. Yes, and will not lose him, Unless he leap into the Moon, believe that, And then she'll scramble too: young wenches loves Are like the course of quarterns, they may shift And seem to cease sometimes, and yet we see The least distemper pulls 'em back again, And seats 'em in their old course: fear her not, Unless he be a devil. Now heaven bless me. What has he writ? Out, out upon him. Ha', what has the mad man done? Worse, worse, and worse still, Some northern toy, a little broad. Still fowler? Hay, hay boys: goodness keep me: oh: What ail ye? Here, take your spell again, it burns my fingers. Was ever Lover writ so sweet a Letter, So elegant a style? pray look upon't: The rarest inventory of rank oaths That ever cutpurse cast. What a mad boy is this? Only i'th' bottom A little julip gently sprinkled over To cool his mouth, lest it break out in blisters, Indeed law. Yours for ever. I am sorry. You shall be welcome to me, eome when you please, And ever may command me virtuously, But for your brother, you must pardon me, Till I am of his nature, no access friend, No word of visitation, as ye love me, And so for now I'll leave ye. What a letter Has this thing written, how it roars like thunder? With what a state he enters into style. Dear Mistress. Out upon him bedlam. Well, there be ways to reach her yet: such likeness As you two carry me thinks. I am mad too, And yet can apprehend ye: far ye well, The fool shall now fish for himself. Be sure then His tewgh be tith and strong: and next no swearing, He'll catch no fish else. Farewell Doll. Farewell Alice. INdeed he's much changed, extremely altered, His colour faded strangely too. The air, The sharp and nipping air of our new climate I hope is all, which will as well restore To health again th'affected body by it, And make it stronger far, as leave it dangerous; How does my sweet, our blessed hour comes on now Apace my Cellide, (it knocks at door) In which our loves, and long desires like rivers Rising asunder far, shall fall together, Within these too days dear. When heaven, and you sir Shall think it fit: for by your wills I am governed, 'Twere good some preparation. All that may be: It shall be no blind wedding: and all the joy Of all our friends I hope: he looks worse hourly: How does my friend, myself? he sweats too coldly, His pulse, like the slow dropping of a spout, Scarce gives his function: how is't man, alas sir, You look extreme ill: is it any old grief, The weight of which?
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)
For your ſake, Not that I any way ſhall like his ſcribling. A ſhrewd diſſembling queane. J thanke ye deere friend, I know ſhe loves him. Yes, and will not looſe him, Vnleſſe he leap into the Moone, beleeve that, And then ſhee'l ſcramble too: yong wenches loves Are like the courſe of quarterns, they may ſhift And ſeeme to ceaſe ſometimes, and yet we ſee The leaſt diſtemper puls 'em backe againe, And ſeats 'em in their old courſe: feare her not, Vnleſſe he be a devill. Now heaven bleſſe me. What has he writ? Out, out upon him. Ha, what has the mad man done? Worſe, worſe, and worſe ſtill, Some northerne toy, a little broad. Still fowler? Hay, hay boyes: goodneſſe keep me: oh: What ayle ye? Here, take your ſpell againe, it burnes my fingers. Was ever Lover writ ſo ſweet a Letter, So elegant a ſtile? pray looke upon't: The rareſt inventory of ranke oathes That ever cut-purſe caſt. What a mad boy is this? Onely i'th bottome A little julip gently ſprinckled over To coole his mouth, leſt it breake out in bliſters, Indeed law. Yours for ever. I am ſorry. You ſhall be welcome to me, eome when you pleaſe, And ever may command me vertuouſly, But for your brother, you muſt pardon me, Till I am of his nature, no acceſſe friend, No word of viſitation, as ye love me, And ſo for now Ile leave ye. What a letter Has this thing written, how it roares like thunder? With what a ſtate he enters into ſtile. Deere Miſtreſſe. Out upon him bedlam. Well, there be waies to reach her yet: ſuch likeneſſe As you two carry me thinkes. I am mad too, And yet can apprehend ye: fare ye well, The foole ſhall now fiſh for himſelfe. Be ſure then His tewgh be tith and ſtrong: and next no ſwearing, He'l catch no fiſh elſe. Farewell Doll. Farewell Alice. INdeed he's much chang'd, extreamely alter'd, His colour faded ſtrangely too. The ayre, The ſharpe and nipping ayre of our new clymat I hope is all, which will as well reſtore To health againe th'affected body by it, And make it ſtronger far, as leave it dangerous; How do's my ſweet, our bleſſed houre comes on now Apace my Cellide, (it knocks at dore) In which our loves, and long deſires like rivers Riſing aſunder far, ſhall fall together, Within theſe too daies deere. When heaven, and you ſir Shall thinke it fit: for by your wils I am govern'd, 'Twere good ſome preparation. All that may be: It ſhall be no blinde wedding: and all the joy Of all our friends I hope: he lookes worſe hourely: How do's my friend, my ſelfe? he ſweats too coldly, His pulſe, like the ſlow dropping of a ſpowt, Scarce gives his function: how i'st man, alas ſir, You looke extreme ill: is it any old griefe, The weight of which?