Jonson, Ben · published 1640 · first performed or written 1633 [licensed for stage, May 7] (Annals) comedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men unassigned nearest T30 Constables, justices and the watch · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T30: constable, squire, tub, clay, worship, justice, turf, mr, hun, valentine.
Your service? good! I think you'll writ to her shortly, Your very loving and obedient Mother. Come, sand your Maids of, I will have 'em sent Home again wife: I love no trains o' Kent, Or Christendom, as they say. We will not back, And leave our Dame. Why should her worship lack Her tail of Maids, more than you do of men? What, mutinin Madge? Zend back your C'lons again. And we will vollow. Else we'll guard our Dame. I ha' zet the nest of wasps all on a flame. Come, you are such another Mr. Turf: A Clod you should be called, of a high Constable: To let no music go afore your child, To Church, to cheer her heart up this cold morning. You are for Father Rosin, and his consort Of fiddling Boys, the great Feats, and the less: Because you have entertained 'em all from Highgate. To show your pomp, you'd ha' your Daughter, and Maids Dance over the fields like Fays, to Church this frost? I'll ha' no rondels, I, i' the Queen's paths; Let 'un scrape the Gut at home, where they ha' filled it At afternoon. I'll ha' 'em play at dinner. She is i' th' right, Sir; vor your wedding dinner Is starved without the Music. If the Pies Come not in piping hot, you ha' lost that Proverb. I yield to truth: wife are you sussified? A right good man! when he knows right, he loves it. And he will know't, and show't too by his place Of being high Constable, if no where else. Well over-taken, Gentlemen! I pray you, Which is the Queen's High Constable among you? The tallest man: who should be else, do you think? It is no matter what I think, young Clown: Your answer favours of the Cart. How? Cart? and Clown? Do you know whose team you speak to? Not: nor I care not: Whose Jade may you be? Jade? Cart? and Clown? O for a lash of whipcord! Three-knotted cord! Do you mutter? Sir, snorle this way; That I may hear, and answer what you say, With my schoole-dagger, 'bout your Costard Sir. Look to't, young grouse: I'll lay it on, and sure; Take't of who's will. Nay, pray you Gentleman—. Go too: I will not bate him an ace on't. What? Rowle-powle? Mapleface? All fellows? Do you hear friend, I would wish you, vor your good, Tie up your brinded Bitch there, your don rusty Pannyer-hilt poinard: and not vex the youth With showing the teeth of it. We now are going To Church, in way of matrimony, some on us: Tha ' rung all in a'ready. If it had not, All the horn beasts are grazing i' this close, Sold not ha' pull ' me hence, till this Ash-plant Had rung noon o' your pate, Mr. Broome-beard. That would I feign zee, quoth the blind George Of Holloway: Come Sir. O their naked weapons! For the passion of man, hold Gentleman, and Puppy. Murder, O Murder!
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)
Your ſervice? good! I thinke you'll write to her ſhortly, Your very loving and obedient Mother. Come, ſend your Maids off, I will have 'hem ſent Home againe wife: I love no traines o' Kent, Or Chriſtendome, as they ſay. Wee will not back, And leave our Dame. Why ſhould her worſhip lack Her taile of Maids, more then you doe of men? What, mutinin Madge? Zend back your C'lons agen. And wee will vollow. Elſe wee'll guard our Dame. I ha' zet the neſt of waſpes all on a flame. Come, you are ſuch another Mr. Turfe: A Clod you ſhould be call'd, of a high Conſtable: To let no muſicke goe afore your child, To Church, to cheare her heart up this cold morning. You are for Father Roſin, and his conſort Of fidling Boyes, the great Feates, and the leſſe: Bycauſe you have entertain'd 'hem all from High-gate. To ſhew your pompe, you'ld ha' your Daughter, and Maids Dance ore the fields like Faies, to Church this froſt? Ile ha' no rondels, I, i' the Queenes pathes; Let 'un ſcrape the Gut at home, where they ha' fill'd it At after-noone. Ile ha' 'hem play at dinner. She is i' th' right, Sir; vor your wedding dinner Is ſtarv'd without the Muſicke. If the Pies Come not in piping hot, you ha' loſt that Proverbe. I yield to truth: wife are you ſuſſified? A right good man! when he knowes right, he loves it. And he will know't, and ſhew't too by his place Of being high Conſtable, if no where elſe. Well over-taken, Gentlemen! I pray you, Which is the Queenes High Conſtable among you? The talleſt man: who ſhould be elſe, doe you thinke? It is no matter what I thinke, young Clowne: Your anſwer favours of the Cart. How? Cart? and Clowne? Doe you know whoſe teame you ſpeake to? No: nor I care not: Whoſe Jade may you be? Jade? Cart? and Clowne? O for a laſh of whip-cord! Three-knotted coard! Doe you mutter? Sir, ſnorle this way; That I may heare, and anſwer what you ſay, With my ſchoole-dagger, 'bout your Coſtard Sir. Looke to't, young growſe: Ile lay it on, and ſure; Take't off who's wull. Nay, pray you Gentleman—. Goe too: I will not bate him an ace on't. What? Rowle-powle? Maple-face? All fellowes? Doe you heare friend, I wou'd wiſh you, vor your good, Tie up your brended Bitch there, your dun ruſtie Pannyer-hilt poinard: and not vexe the youth With ſhewing the teeth of it. Wee now are going To Church, in way of matrimony, ſome on us: Tha' rung all in a'ready. If it had not, All the horne beaſts are grazing i' this cloſe, Sould not ha' pull' me hence, till this Aſh-plant Had rung noone o' your pate, Mr. Broome-beard. That would I faine zee, quoth the blind George Of Holloway: Come Sir. O their naked weapons! For the paſſion of man, hold Gentleman, and Puppy. Murder, O Murder!