The Bloody Brother (Rollo, Duke of Normandy) · chunk 29 of 39
Fletcher, John / Field, Nathan / Massinger, Philip · published 1639 · first performed or written 1617 [revised 1627-1630] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.78 · 495 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
I was light then, New built and rigged when I came to you, gentlemans, But now with often and far venturing for you Here be leaks Sprung and whole Planks wanting see you; If you'll new sheath metalline, yet I am for you To any bog or sleights, where ere you'll send me, For as, 〈◊〉 where can this ragged Bark Put in for any service; less it be O'th' Isle of Rogues, and there turn Pirate for you. Faith he says reason, Friar, you must leave Your neat crisp Clarret and fall to your Cider A while; and you la Fiske, your larded Capons, And Turkeys for a time, and take a good Clean Tripe in your way; de Bube too must content him with wholesome two Souzed petitoes, no more Crown ordinaries, till we have clothed our Infant. So you'll keep Your own good motions, Doctor, your dear self. Yes, for we all do know the Latitude Of your Concupiscence. Here about your belly. You'll pick a bottle open or a whimsy, As soon as the best of us. And dip your wrists bands, (For Cuffs y'have none) as comely in the sauce As any Courtier— hark, the Bell, who is there Good luck I do conjure thee; Boy look out. They are Gallants, Courtiers, one of'em is Of the Duke's bedchamber. Latorche, down, On with your gown, there's a new suit arrived, Did I not tell you, Sons of hunger? Crowns, Crowns are coming toward you, wine & wenches You shall have once again, and Fiddlers: Into your studies close; each lay his ear To his door, and as you hear me to prepare you So come, and put me on that vizard only. You'll not be far hence Captain, when the Business is done you shall receive present dispatch. I'll walk Sir, in the Cloister. Monsieur Latorche; my son The Stars are happy still that guide you hither. I'm glad to hear their Secretary say so, My learned Father Russe, where's la Fiske, Monsieur de Bube, how do they? At their studies, They are the Secretaries of the Stars, Sir, Still at their books, they will not be pulled off, They stick like cupping glasses; if ever men Spoke with the tongue of destiny, 'tis they. For love's sake let's salute 'em. Boy, go see, Tell them who's here, say, that their friends do challenge Some portion of their time, this is our minutes; Pray'em they'll spare it: they are the Sun and Moon Of knowledge; pity two such noble lights Should live obscured here in an University, Whose beams were fit, to illumine any Court Of Christendom The Duke will shortly know 'em. Well, look upon the Astrolabe; you'll find it Four Almucanturies at least. It is so. Still, of their learned stuff, they care for nothing, But how to know, as negligent of their bodies In diet, or else, especially in their clothes, As if they had no change.
seed 43: T0 · seed 44: T0 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I was light then, New built and rigg'd when I came to you, Gentlemen, But now with often and far ventring for you Here be leakes Spr and whole Plancks wanting see you; If you'le new sheat me ine, yet I am for you To any bog or sleights, where ere you'le send me, For as, whe can this ragged Bark Put in for any service; lesse it be O'th Isle of Rogues, and there turne Pyrate for you. Faith he sayes reason, Fryer, you must leave Your neat crispe Glaet and fall to your Syder A while; and you la Fiske, your larded Capons, And Turkeys for a time and take a good Cleane Tripe in your way; de Bube too must content him with wholesome two Souz'd peitoes, no more Crown ordinaries, till we have cloath'd our Infant. So you'le keep Your own good motions, Doctor, your deare selfe. Yes, for we all do know the Latitude Of your Concupiscence. Here about your belly. You'le picke a bottle open or a whimsey, As soon as the best of us. And dip your wrists bands, (For Cuffs y'have none) as comely in the sauce As any Courtyer— harke, the Bell, who is there Good luck I do conjure thee; Boy look out. They are Gallants, Courtiers, one of'em is Of the Dukes bed-chamber. Latorche, down, On with your gown, there's a new suite arriv'd, Did I not tell you, Sons of hunger? Crownes, Crowns are comming toward you, wine & wenches You shall have once again, and Fidlers: Into your studyes close; each lay his eare To his doore, and as you heare me to prepare you So come, and put me on that visard only. You'le not be far hence Captain, when the Businesse is done you shall receive present dispatch. Ile walke Sir, in the Cloyster. Monsieur Latorche; my sonne The Stars are happy still that guide you hither. I'me glad to heare their Secretary say so, My learned Father Russ, where's la Fiske, Monsieur de Bube, how do they? At their studyes, They are the Secretaries of the Stars, Sir, Still at their books, they will not be pull'd off, They stick like cupping glasses; if ever men Spoke with the tongue of destiny, 'tis they. For loves sake let's salute em. Boy, go see, Tell them who's here, say, that their friends do challenge Some portion of their time, this is our minutes; Pray'em they'le spare it: they are the Sun and Moon Of knowledge; pitty two such noble lights Should live obscur'd here in an University, Whose beames were fit, to illumine any Court Of Christendome The Duke will shortly know 'em. Well, look upon the Astrolabe; you'le find it Foure Almucanturies at least. It is so. Still, of their learned stuffe, they care for nothing, But how to know, as negligent of their bodies In dyet, or else, especially in their cloths, As if they had no change.