Jonson, Ben · published 1640 · first performed or written 1633 [licensed for stage, May 7] (Annals) comedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men T41 Household service: masters, doors and po typicality 0.79 · 493 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
I am neither nick, nor in the nick: therefore You lie Sir Metaphor. Lie? how? Lie so Sir. I lie not yet i' my throat. Thou liest o' the ground. Dost thou know me? Yes, I did know you too late. What is my name than? Basket. Basket? what? Basket, the Great— The Great? what? Lubber— I should say Lover, of the Squire his Master. Great is my patience, to forbear thee thus, Thou Scrape-hill, Scoundrel, and thou scum of man; Uncivil, orenge-tawny-coated Clarke: Thou cam'st but half a thing into the world, And waste made up of patches, parings, shreds: Thou, that when last thou wert put out of service, Travaild'st to Hamsted Heath, on an Ash-we'nsday, Where thou didst stand six weeks the jack of Lent, For boys to hoorle, three throws a penny, at thee, To make thee a purse: Seest thou this, bold bright blade? As minced meat for a pie. I'll set thee in earth All save thy head, and thy right arm at liberty, To keep thy hat of, while I question thee, What? why? and whether thou wert going now With a face, ready to break out with business? And tell me truly, jest I dashed in pieces. Than Basket put thy smiter up, and hear; I dare not tell the truth to a drawn sword. 'Tis sheathed, stand up, speak without fear, or wit. I know not what they mean; but Constable Turf Sends here his key; for moneys in his cupboard Which he must pay the Captain, that was robbed This morning. Smell you nothing? Not, not I; Thy breeches yet are honest. As my mouth. Do you not smell a rat? I tell you truth, I think all's knavery: For the Cannon whispered Me in the ear, when Turf had gi'n me his key, By the same token to bring Mistress Audrey, As sent for thither; and to say Iohn Clay Is found, which is indeed to get the wench Forth for my Master, who is to be married, When she comes there: The Cannon has his rules Ready, and all there to dispatch the matter. Now on my life, this is the Chanon's plot! Miles, I have heard all thy discourse to Basket. Wilt thou be true, and I'll reward thee well, To make me happy, in my Mistress Audrey? Your worship shall dispose of Metaphor, Through all his parts, even from the sole o' the head, To the crown o' the foot, to manage of your service. Than do thy message to the Mistress Turf, Tell her thy token, bring the money hither, And likewise take young Audrey to thy charge: Which done, here, Metaphor, we will attend, And intercept thee. And for thy reward, You two shall share the money; I the Maid: If any take offence, I'll make all good. But shall I have half the money Sir, in faith? I on my Squire-ship, shalt thou: and my land.
seed 43: T27 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I am neither nick, nor in the nick: therefore You lie Sir Metaphor. Lye? how? Lye ſo Sir. I lye not yet i' my throat. Thou ly'ſt o' the ground. Do'ſt thou know me? Yes, I did know you too late. What is my name then? Basket. Basket? what? Basket, the Great— The Great? what? Lubber— I ſhould ſay Lover, of the Squire his Maſter. Great is my patience, to forbeare thee thus, Thou Scrape-hill, Skoundrell, and thou skum of man; Vncivill, orenge-tawny-coated Clarke: Thou cam'ſt but halfe a thing into the world, And waſt made up of patches, parings, ſhreds: Thou, that when laſt thou wert put out of ſervice, Travaild'ſt to Hamſted Heath, on an Aſh-we'nsday, Where thou didſt ſtand ſixe weekes the Iack of Lent, For boyes to hoorle, three throwes a penny, at thee, To make thee a purſe: Seeſt thou this, bold bright blade? As minc'd meat for a pie. Ile ſet thee in earth All ſave thy head, and thy right arme at liberty, To keepe thy hat off, while I queſtion thee, What? why? and whether thou wert going now With a face, ready to breake out with buſines? And tell me truly, leſt I daſh't in peeces. Then Basket put thy ſmiter up, and heare; I dare not tell the truth to a drawne ſword. 'Tis ſheath'd, ſtand up, ſpeake without feare, or wit. I know not what they meane; but Conſtable Turfe Sends here his key; for monies in his cubbard Which he muſt pay the Captaine, that was rob'd This morning. Smell you nothing? No, not I; Thy breeches yet are honeſt. As my mouth. Doe you not ſmell a rat? I tell you truth, I thinke all's knavery: For the Chanon whiſper'd Me in the eare, when Turfe had gi'n me his key, By the ſame token to bring Mrs. Awdrey, As ſent for thither; and to ſay Iohn Clay Is found, which is indeed to get the wench Forth for my Maſter, who is to be married, When ſhe comes there: The Chanon has his rules Ready, and all there to diſpatch the matter. Now on my life, this is the Chanon's plot! Miles, I have heard all thy diſcourſe to Basket. Wilt thou be true, and Ile reward thee well, To make me happy, in my Miſtris Awdrey? Your worſhip ſhall diſpoſe of Metaphore, Through all his parts, ene from the ſole o' the head, To the crowne o' the foot, to manage of your ſervice. Then doe thy meſſage to the Miſtris Turfe, Tell her thy token, bring the money hither, And likewiſe take young Awdrey to thy charge: Which done, here, Metaphore, wee will attend, And intercept thee. And for thy reward, You two ſhall ſhare the money; I the Maid: If any take offence, Ile make all good. But ſhall I have halfe the money Sir, in faith? I on my Squire-ſhip, ſhalt thou: and my land.