D., J. · published 1640 · first performed or written c.1625 [revised c.1632] (Annals) comedy · Unknown · Fortune T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint typicality 0.82 · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
No, 'tis no matter. Tomaso you shall do't, Go see nothing want; you are all my guests, you dine with Me that's certain: Nay, I will not be denied: Most welcome Sir to you: will you walk? Ever, ever welcome. Will you walk sir? will you munch? Sirrah Fub, thou wouldst not think how sore my head is, ever since I had the knock with the Ladle? I believe you: will you feed sir? No more i'th' Ladle. methinks I am pocky melancholy here of late. So I guessed, ever since you knew the Gentlewoman that beat you. Thou sayest true, ever since i'faith. Why she is able to make anybody pocky melancholy. But would you would snap a bit sir. I love her I cannot tell how: i'faith and I were well searched, I think I am little kin to a spaniel, the more I am beaten, the better I affect. Would I were sure of that. Well, she shall hear from me in some Sonnet or Ditty; some rare thing of mine own invention, and that speedily: Let me see to what tune shall I have it? And if you please, let it go to the Punks delight; 'tis your only sweet tune: for women do love the Punks delight. By this hand gramercy; they do indeed, thou canst sing if need be. I can make a scurvy shift: But to say truth I am no good chorister. But canst thou do well and scurvily? After my manner. Would I might be hanged presently, but methinks I am a piece of a Poet already, there's such a whistling in my pate. That's nothing but your conceit sir. Conceit merrily: O that my love were any thing but woman. O that your love were any thing but Common: then might she be.— What might she be. Nay what you will i'faith. I'll to't while 'tis hot, I know I'm in an excellent vein. Prick it quickly then: But Hark you Signior, shall you not need my help? I defy't, It shall be all mine own, I cannot abide, 'tis the scurviest thing to rob others of their wit, good or bad, it shall flow from mine own sweet brain. I believe you'll find the tide turned, 'tis ebbing water there, would I might be begged, as he had like to have been, if his foolery do not vex my discretion, but he gives me means, and I could do little if I could not smile. Well Vallentius, and you be caught i'th' purlieus: and you be not stung for't I'll forswear privacy, and all that belongs too't, I have a Girl, the very spirit of what she was made for, and she were honest, she might crave supremacy of Helen, and make her ride behind. And I love one were she not honest, that's her only fault, she were a Paragon unparalleled, mingle all beauty that our Venice yields, and set herself aside, she would stand peerless, overshine them all, and dim the Artists cunning.
seed 43: T2 · seed 44: T3 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
No, tis no matter. Tomaſo you ſhall do't, Goe ſee nothing want; you are all my gueſts, you dine with Me that's certaine: Nay, I will not be deny'd: Moſt welcome Sir to you: will you walke? Ever, ever welcome. Will you walk ſir? will you munch? Sirrah Fub, thou wouldſt not think how ſore my head is, ever ſince I had the knock with the Ladle? I believe you: will you feed ſir? No more i'th' Ladle. Me thinkes I am pocky melancholy here of late. So I gheſt, ever ſince you knew the Gentlewoman that beate you. Thou ſayeſt true, ever ſince yfaith. Why ſhe is able to make any body pocky melancholy. But would you would ſnap a bit ſir. I love her I cannot tell how: yfaith and I were well ſearch'd, I think I am little kin to a Spannell, the more I am beaten, the better I affect. Would I were ſure of that. Well, ſhe ſhall heare from me in ſome Sonnet or Ditty; ſome rare thing of mine owne invention, and that ſpeedily: Let me ſee to what tune ſhall I have it? And if you pleaſe, let it goe to the Punkes delight; 'tis your onely ſweet tune: for women doe love the Punks delight. By this hand gramercy; they doe indeed, thou canſt ſing if need be. I can make a ſcurvy ſhift: But to ſay truth I am no good Queriſter. But canſt thou doe well and ſcurvily? After my manner. Would I might be hang'd preſently, but methinkes I am a piece of a Poet already, there's ſuch a whiſtling in my pate. That's nothing but your conceit ſir. Conceit merrily: O that my love were any thing but woman. O that your love were any thing but Common: then might ſhe be.— What might ſhe be. Nay what you wil yfaith. Ile to't while tis hot, I know I'me in an excellent vein. Pricke it quickly then: But Harke you Signior, ſhall you not need my helpe? I defie't, It ſhall be all mine own, I cannot abide, tis the ſcurvieſt thing to rob others of their wit, good or bad, it ſhall flow from mine own ſweet brain. I believe youle finde the tyde turn'd, tis ebbing water there, would I might be begg'd, as hee had like to have been, if his foolery do not vex my diſcretion, but hee gives me means, and I could do little if I could not ſmile. Well Vallentius, and you be caught ith' purlues: and you be not ſtung for't Ile forſweare privacie, and all that belongs too, I have a Girle, the very ſpirit of what ſhe was made for, and ſhe were honeſt, ſhe might crave ſupremacie of Hellen, and make her ride behinde. And I love one were ſhe not honeſt, that's her only fault, ſhee were a Paragon unparalleld, mingle all beautie that our Venice yields, and ſet her ſelf aſide, ſhe would ſtand peerleſſe, over-ſhine them all, and dimme the Artiſts cunning.