The Bloody Brother (Rollo, Duke of Normandy) · chunk 23 of 39
Fletcher, John / Field, Nathan / Massinger, Philip · published 1639 · first performed or written 1617 [revised 1627-1630] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds typicality 0.82 · 472 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
Pray, pray, fellows. Pray for thy crusty soul? where's your reward now, Goodman Manchet, for your fine discovery? I do beseech you sir, where are your dollars? Draw with your fellows, and be hanged. He must now. For now he shall be hanged first, that's his comfort, A place too good for thee, thou meal mouthed rascal. Hang handsomely for shame, come leave your praying You peaking knave, and die like a good courtier; Die honestly, and like a man; no preaching, With I beseech you take example by me, I lived a lewd man, good people; pox on't: Die me as if thou hadst dined, say grace, and God be with you, Come, will you forward? Good Mr Sheriff, your leave to, this hasty work Was ne'er done well: give us so much time as but to sing Our own Ballads, for we'll trust no man, Nor no tune but our own; 'twas done in Ale too, And therefore cannot be refused in justice. Your penny pot Poets are such pelting thieves, They ever hang men twice; we have it here sir, And so much every merchant of our voyage, He'll make a sweet return else of his credit. One fit of our own mirth and then we are for you. Make haste then, dispatch. There's day enough, sir. Come boys, sing cheerfully, we shall ne'er sing younger, We have chosen a loud tune too, because it should like well. Come, Fortune's a whore, I care not who tell her, Would offer to strangle a page of the Cellar, That should by his oath, to any man's thinking, And place, have had a defence for his drinking; But thus she does still, when she pleases to palter, In stead of his wages, she gives him a halter. Three merry boys, and three merry boys, and three merry boys are we, As ever did sing in a hempen string, under the gallow-tree. But I that was so lusty, And ever kept my bottles, That neither they were musty, And seldom less than pottles, For me to be thus stopped now, With hemp in stead of cork sir, And from the gallows lopped now, Shows that there is a fork sir, In death, and this the token, Man may be two ways killed, Or like the bottle, broken, Or like the wine, be spilt. Three merry boys, &c Oh yet but look on the master Cook, the glory of the kitchen, In sowing whose fate at so lofty a rate, no Tailor ere had stitching For though he makes the man, the Cook yet makes the dishes; The which no Tailor can, wherein I have my wishes, That I who at so many a feast have pleased so many tasters, Should now myself come to be dressed, a dish for you my masters'
Fletcher, John / Field, Nathan / Massinger, Philip
Publication year (edition)
1639
First performance / composition (Annals)
1617 [revised 1627-1630]
First performance (BritDrama)
1617 [1617-1620]
Company (BritDrama)
King's Men
Genre (British Drama)
tragedy
Play type
Adult Professional;Professional
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 1114 · TCP A00958 · DEEP 935
Edition role
Representative edition — used in the analysis
Position
nodes 1421–1476 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 23 of 39 in this edition
Length
472 words · 629 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T47 — Knaves, thieves and bawdscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.820 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T46 · seed 44: T41 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Pray, pray, fellowes. Pray for thy crusty soule? where's your reward now, Goodman Manchet, for your fine discovery? I doe beseech you sir, where are your dollars? Draw with your fellowes, and be hang'd. He must now. For now he shall be hang'd first, that's his comfort, A place too good for thee, thou meale mouth'd rascall. Hang handsomely for shame, come leave your praying You peaking knave, and die like a good courtier; Die honestly, and like a man; no preaching, With I beseech you take example by me, I liv'd a lewd man, good people; pox ont: Die me as if thou hadst din'd, say grace, and God be with you, Come, will you forward? Good Mr Sheriffe, your leave to, this hasty work Was nere done well: give us so much time as but to sing Our owne Ballads, for weele trust no man, Nor no tune but our owne; twas done in Ale too, And therefore cannot be refus'd in justice. Your penny pot Poets are such pelting theeves, They ever hang men twice; we have it here sir, And so much every merchant of our voyage, Hele make a sweet returne else of his credit. One fit of our owne mirth and then we are for you. Make haste then, dispatch. There's day enough, sir. Come boyes, sing cheerfully, we shall nere sing yonger We have chosen a loud tune too, because it should like well. Come, Fortune's a whore, I care not who tell her, Would offer to strangle a page of the Cellar, That should by his oath, to any mans thinking, And place, have had a defence for his drinking; But thus she does still, when she pleases to palter, In stead of his wages, she gives him a halter. Three merry boyes, and three merry boyes, and three merry boyes are we, As ever did sing in a hempen string, under the gallow-tree. But I that was so lusty, And ever kept my bottles, That neither they were musty, And seldome lesse than pottles, For me to be thus stopt now, With hemp in stead of cork sir, And from the gallows lopt now, Shewes that there is a fork sir, In death, and this the token, Man may be two wayes killed, Or like the bottle, broken, Or like the wine, be spilled. Three merry boyes, &c Oh yet but look on the master Cook, the glory of the kitchin, In sowing whose fate at so lofty a rate, no Taylor ere had stitching For though he makes the man, the Cooke yet makes the dishes; The which no Taylor can, wherein I have my wishes, That I who at so many a feast have pleasde so many tasters, Should now my selfe come to be drest, a dish for you my masters