Jonson, Ben · published 1640 · first performed or written 1633 [licensed for stage, May 7] (Annals) comedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 517 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
Now Sir, I see you meant but honestly; And, but that business calls me hence away, I would not leave you, till the sun were lower. But Mr. Justice, one word, Sir, with you. By the same token, is your Mistress sent for By Metaphor your Clerk, as from her Father. Who when she comes, I'll marry her to you, Unwitting to this Turf, who shall attend Me at the parsonage. This was my plot: Which I must now make good; turn Cannon, again, In my square cap. I humbly take my leave. Adieu, good Captain. Trust me, neighbour Turf, He seems to be a sober Gentleman: But this distress hath somewhat stirred his patience. And men, you know, in such extremities, Apt not themselves to points of courtesy; I'm glad you ha' made this end. You stood my friend: I thank your Justice-worship; pray you be Prezent anon, at tendering o' the money, And see me have a discharge: for I ha' no craft I' your Law quiblins. I'll secure you, neighbour. Indeed, there is a woundy luck in names, Sirs, And a main mystery, an a man knew where. To vind it. My God-sires name, I'll tell you, Was In-and-In Shuttle, and a Weaver he was, And it did fit his craft: for so his Shuttle Went in, and in, still: this way, and than that way. And he named me, Inand In Medlay: which serves A Joiner's craft, because that we do lay Things in and in, in our work. But, I am truly Architectonicus professor, rather: That is (as one would zay) an Architect. As I am a Varrier, and a Visicarie: Horse-smith of Hamsted, and the whole Town Leach—. Yes, you ha' done woundy cures, Gossip Clench. An I can see the stolen once, through a Vrine-hole, I'll give a shrewd guess, be it man, or beast. I cured an Alewife once, that had the staggers Worse than five horses, without rowelling. My God-phere was a Rabian, or a Iew, (You can tell D'oge!) They called un Doctor Rasi. One Rasis was a great Arabic Doctor. He was King Harry's Doctor, and my God-phere. Mine was a merry Greek, Topan, of Twyford: A jovial Tinker, and a stopper of holes; Who left me mettall-man of Belsise, his heir. But what was yours D'oge? Vaith, I cannot tell If mine were kyrsind, or no. But, zure he had A kyrsin name, that he left me, Diogenes. A mighty learned man, but pestilence poor. Vor, h'had no house, save an old Tub, to devil in, (I vind that in records) and still he turned it I' the winds teeth, as't blew on his backside, And there they would lie routing one at other, A week, sometimes. Thence came A Tale of a Tub; And the virst Tale of a Tub, old D'ogenes Tub. That was avore Sir Peter Tub, or his Lady. I, or the Squire their son, Tripoli Tub. The Squire is a fine Gentleman! He is more: A Gentleman and a half; almost a Knight; Within zixe inches: That's his true measure.
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)
Now Sir, I ſee you meant but honeſtly; And, but that buſines cals me hence away, I would not leave you, till the ſunne were lower. But Mr. Juſtice, one word, Sir, with you. By the ſame token, is your Miſtris ſent for By Metaphore your Clarke, as from her Father. Who when ſhe comes, Ile marry her to you, Vnwitting to this Turfe, who ſhall attend Me at the parſonage. This was my plot: Which I muſt now make good; turne Chanon, againe, In my ſquare cap. I humbly take my leave. Adieu, good Captaine. Truſt me, neighbour Turfe, He ſeemes to be a ſober Gentleman: But this diſtreſſe hath ſomewhat ſtir'd his patience. And men, you know, in ſuch extremities, Apt not themſelves to points of courteſie; I'am glad you ha' made this end. You ſtood my friend: I thanke your Juſtice-worſhip; pray you be Prezent anone, at tendring o' the money, And zee me have a diſcharge: Vor I ha' no craft I' your Law quiblins. Ile ſecure you, neighbour. Indeed, there is a woundy luck in names, Sirs, And a maine myſterie, an' a man knew where. To vind it. My God-ſires name, Ile tell you, Was In-and-In Shittle, and a Weaver he was, And it did fit his craft: for ſo his Shittle Went in, and in, ſtill: this way, and then that way. And he nam'd me, In-and In Medlay: which ſerves A Joyners craft, bycauſe that wee doe lay Things in and in, in our worke. But, I am truly Architectonicus profeſſor, rather: That is (as one would zay) an Architect. As I am a Varrier, and a Viſicarie: Horſe-ſmith of Hamſted, and the whole Towne Leach—. Yes, you ha' done woundy cures, Goſſip Clench. An' I can zee the ſtale once, through a Vrine-hole, Ile give a ſhrew'd gheſſe, be it man, or beaſt. I cur'd an Ale-wife once, that had the ſtaggers Worſe then five horſes, without rowelling. My God-phere was a Rabian, or a Iew, (You can tell D'oge!) They call'd un Doctor Raſi. One Raſis was a great Arabick Doctor. Hee was King Harry's Doctor, and my God-phere. Mine was a merry Greeke, To-Pan, of Twyford: A joviall Tinker, and a ſtopper of holes; Who left me mettall-man of Belſiſe, his heire. But what was yours D'oge? Vaith, I cannot tell If mine were kyrſind, or no. But, zure hee had A kyrſin name, that he left me, Diogenes. A mighty learned man, but peſt'lence poore. Vor, h'had no houſe, ſave an old Tub, to dwell in, (I vind that in records) and ſtill he turn'd it I' the winds teeth, as't blew on his back-ſide, And there they would lie rowting one at other, A weeke, ſometimes. Thence came A Tale of a Tub; And the virſt Tale of a Tub, old D'ogenes Tub. That was avore Sir Peter Tub, or his Lady. I, or the Squire their ſonne, Tripoli Tub. The Squire is a fine Gentleman! He is more: A Gentleman and a halfe; almoſt a Knight; Within zixe inches: That's his true meaſure.