Monsieur Thomas (Father's Own Son) · chunk 33 of 42
Fletcher, John · published 1639 · first performed or written 1615 [1610-c.1616] (Annals) comedy · Unknown · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T56 Magic, spells and conjuring · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T56: magic, faustus, charms, charm, conjure, spirits, skill, ho, power, spells.
None but my fortune, and myself. Bless ye Now run thou for thy life, and get before him, Take the by way, and tell my Cousin Marie In what shape he intends to come to coz n her I'll follow at thy heels myself: fly wench I'll do it. My Father has met him: this goes excellent And i'll away in time: look to your skin Thomas. What, are you grown so corn sed goody You will not know your Father: what vaga'res Have you in hand, what out leaps, dirty heels That at these hours of night ye must be gadding, And through the Orchard take your private passage; What, is the breeze in your breech, or has your brother Appointed you an hour of meditation How to demean himself: get ye to bed, drab Or i'll so crab your shoulders: ye demure slut Ye civil dish of sliced beef get ye in. I wy' not, that I wy' not. Is't even so Dame Have at ye with a night spell then. Pray hold sir. St. Geoge, St. George, our Lady's knight He walks by day, so does he by night, And when he had her found He her beat, and her bound, Until to him her troth she plight, She would not stir from him that night. Nay then have at ye with a counter-spell, From Elves, Hobbs and Fairies, that trouble our dairies, From Fire-drakes and fiends, and such as the devil sends, Defend us heaven. Bless my Master: look up sir I beseech ye, Up with your eyes to heaven. Up with your nose sir, I do not bleed, 'twas a sound knock she gave me, A plaguy mankind girl, how my brains totters? Well, go thy ways, thou hast got one thousand pound more With this dog trick, Mine own true spirit in her too, In her, alas sir, Alas poor gentlewoman, she a hand so heavy To knock ye like a Calf down, or so brave a courage To beat her father? if you could believe sir. Who wouldst thou make me believe it was, the devil? One that spits fire as fast as he sometimes sir, And changes shapes as often: your son Thomas: Never wonder, if it be not he, strait hang me. He? if it be so, I'll put thee in my Will, and there's an end on't. I saw his legs, has Boots on like a Player, Under his wench's clothes: 'tis he, 'tis Thomas In his own sister's clothes, sir, and I can waste him. No more words then, we'll watch him: thou'lt not believe Lance, How hearty glad I am. May ye be gladder, But not this way sir. No more words, but watch him. WHen comes he? Presently. Then get you up Doll, Away, I'll straight come to you: is all ready? All. Let the light stand far enough. 'Tis placed so. Stay you to entertain him to his chamber, But keep close wench, he flies at all.
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)
None but my fortune, and my ſelfe. Bleſſe ye Now run thou for thy life, and get before him, Take the by way, and tell my Coſin Marie In what ſhape he intends to come to coz n her Ile follow at thy heeles my ſelfe: flie wench Ile do it. My Father has met him: this goes excellent And ile away in time: looke to your skin Thomas. What, are you growne ſo corne ſed gooddy You will not know your Father: what vaga'res Have you in hand, what out leapes, durty heeles That at theſ houres of night ye muſt be gadding, And through the Orchard take your private paſſage; What, is the breeze in your breech, or has your brother Appointed you an houre of meditation How to demeane himſelfe: get ye to bed, drab Or ile ſo crab your ſhoulders: ye demure ſlut Ye civill diſh of ſliced beefe get ye in. I wy' not, that I wy' not. Is't ev'n ſo Dame Have at ye with a night ſpell then. Pray hold ſir. St. Geoge, St. George, our Ladies knight He walkes by day, ſo do's he by night, And when he had her found He her beat, and her bound, Vntill to him her troth ſhe plight, She would not ſtir from him that night. Nay then have at ye with a counter-ſpell, From Elves, Hobs and Fayries, that trouble our Dayries, From Fire-drakes and fiends, and ſuch as the divell ſends, Defend us heaven. Bleſſe my Maſter: looke up ſir I beſeech ye, Vp with your eyes to heaven. Vp with your noſe ſir, I doe not bleed, 'twas a ſound knock ſhe gave me, A plaguy mankinde gile, how my braines totters? Well, go thy waies, thou haſt got one thouſand pound more With this dog tricke, Mine owne true ſpirit in her too, In her, alas ſir, Alas poore gentlewoman, ſhe a hand ſo heavy To knocke ye like a Calfe down, or ſo brave a courage To beat her father? if you could beleeve ſir. Who wouldſt thou make me beleeve it was, the divell? One that ſpits fire as faſt as he ſometimes ſir, And changes ſhapes as often: your ſonne Thomas: Never wonder, if it be not he, ſtraight hang me. He? if it be ſo, I'le put thee in my Will, and ther's an end on't. J ſaw his legs, has Boots on like a Player, Vnder his wenches cloaths: 'tis he, 'tis Thomas In his own ſiſters cloaths, ſir, and I can waſt him. No more words then, we'l watch him: thou'lt not beleeve Lance, How heartily glad I am. May ye be gladder, But not this way ſir. No more words, but watch him. VVHen comes he? Preſently. Then get you up Doll, Away, I'le ſtrait come to you: is all ready? All. Let the light ſtand far enough. 'Tis placed ſo. Stay you to entertaine him to his chamber, But keep cloſe wench, he flyes at all.