Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1621 [Aug 3; Aug 5; Sep] (Annals) masque · before the Court unassigned nearest T32 Rings and jewels as tokens · 498 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T32: ring, ti, gave, finger, jewel, lady, lord, love, invisible, away.
Our whole stock, is that gone? how will Tom Ticklefoot do to wet his whistle than? Mary, a new collection, there's no music else masters, he can ill pipe that wants his upper lip; Money. They have robbed me too of a dainty race of ginger, and a jetring I had, to draw Jack straw hither a holy days. Is't possible? fine fingered Gipsies i'faith. And I have lost an enchanted Nutmeg, all guilded over, was enchanted at Oxford for me, to put i'my sweet-hearts Ale a mornings; with a row of white-pins that prick me to the very heart, the loss of them. And I have lost, besides my purse, my best bride-lace I had at Joan Turner's wedding, and a halpeworth of hobnayles: Francis Addle-breech has lost somewhat too, besides her Maidenhead. I have lost my thimble, and a skein of Coventry-blew I had to work Gregory Lichfield a handkerchief. And I unhappy Christian as I am, have lost my Practice of Piety, with a bowed groat; and the ballet of Whoop Barnibie, which grieves me ten times worse. And Ticklefoot h'as lost his clout he says, with a three pence and four tokens in't; besides his Tabouring-sticke even now. And I my knife and sheath, and my fine Dogs-leather gloves. Ha' we lost never a dog amongst us, where's Puppy. Here goodman Townshead, you have nothing to loose it seems, but the Towne-braines you are trusted with. O my dear marrows! No shooting of arrows, Or shafts of your wit, Each other to hit, In your skirmishing fit? Your store is but small, Than venture not all. Remember each mock, Doth spend o' the stock; And what was here done, Being under the Moon, And at afternoon, Will prove right soon Disceptio visus, Done Gratia risus. there's no such thing, As the loss of a ring, Or what you count worse, The miss of a purse. But hay for the main, And pass of the strain, here's both come again. And there's an old twinger, Can show yet the ginger; The Pins, and the Nutmeg Are safe here with Slut-megge; Than strike up your Tabour, And there's for your labour; The sheath, and the knife, I'll venture my life, Shall breed you no strife, But like man, and wife, Or Sister, and brother, keep one with another, And light as a feather, Make haste to come hither. THe Coventry-blew, Hangs there upon Prue, And here's one opens The Clout, and the Tokens; Deny the bowed groat, And you lie i'your throat. Or the Tabourers nine pence, Or the six fine pence. As for the ballet, Or the book what you call it; Alas our society, Mells not with piety, Himself hath forsook it, That first undertook it; For thimble, or bride-lace Search yonder side lass. All's to be found, If you look yourselves round; We scorn to take from ye, We had rather spend on ye, If any man wrong ye, The Theef's among ye.
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)
Our whole ſtocke, is that gone? how will Tom Tickle-foot doe to wet his whiſtle then? Marry, a new collection, ther's no muſicke elſe maſters, hee can ill pipe that wants his upper lippe; Money. They have robb'd me too of a dainty race of ginger, and a jetring I had, to draw Jacke ſtraw hether a holy dayes. Is't poſſible? fine finger'd Gipſies i'faith. And I have loſt an inchanted Nutmegge, all guilded over, was inchanted at Oxford for mee, to put i'my ſweet-hearts Ale a mornings; with a row of white-pins that pricke me to the very heart, the loſſe of them. And I have loſt, beſides my purſe, my beſt bride-lace I had at Joane Turners wedding, and a halpeworth of hobnayles: Francis Addle-breech has loſt ſomewhat too, beſides her Mayden-head. I have loſt my thimble, and a skeine of Coventry-blew I had to worke Gregory Lichfield a handkercheife. And I unhappie Chriſtian as I am, have loſt my Practice of Pietie, with a bowed groat; and the ballet of Whoope Barnibie, which grieves me ten times worſe. And Tickle-foot h'as loſt his cloute he ſayes, with a three pence and foure tokens in't; beſides his Tabouring-ſticke ev'n now. And I my knife and ſheath, and my fine Dogs-leather gloves. H'a we loſt never a dogge amongſt us, wher's Puppie. Here goodman Townſhead, you have nothing to loſe it ſeemes, but the Towne-braines you are truſted with. OH my deare marrowes! No ſhooting of arrowes, Or ſhafts of your wit, Each other to hit, In your skirmiſhing fit? Your ſtore is but ſmall, Then venter not all. Remember each mocke, Doth ſpend o' the ſtocke; And what was here done, Being under the Moone, And at afternoone, Will prove right ſoone Diſceptio viſus, Done Gratia riſus. Ther's no ſuch thing, As the loſſe of a ring, Or what you count worſe, The miſſe of a purſe. But haye for the maine, And paſſe of the ſtraine, Heer's both come againe. And ther's an old twinger, Can ſhow yet the ginger; The Pinnes, and the Nutmegge Are ſafe here with Slut-megge; Then ſtrike up your Tabour, And ther's for your labour; The ſheath, and the knife, Ile venter my life, Shall breed you no ſtrife, But like man, and wife, Or Siſter, and brother, keepe one with another, And light as a feather, Make haſte to come hither. THe Coventry-blew, Hangs there upon Prue, And heer's one opens The Clout, and the Tokens; Denie the bow'd groat, And you lie i'your throat. Or the Tabourers nine pence, Or the ſixe fine pence. As for the ballet, Or the booke what you call it; Alas our ſocietie, Mell's not with pietie, Himſelfe hath forſooke it, That firſt undertooke it; For thimble, or bride-lace Search yonder ſide laſſe. All's to be found, If you looke your ſelves round; We ſcorne to take from yee, We had rather ſpend on yee, If any man wrong yee, The Theef's among yee.