Master Arden of Faversham in Kent · chunk 10 of 40
Anonymous / Kyd, Thomas / Shakespeare, William / Watson, Thomas · published 1592 · first performed or written 1591 [1588-1592] (Annals) tragedy · Pembroke's Men (?) unassigned nearest T11 Siblings, kin and confidants · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T11: sister, brother, love, friend, heart, father, mother, woman, lord, hear.
They be so good, that I must laugh for joy, Before I can begin to tell my tale, Let's hear them, that I may laugh for company This morning M. Green, dick green I mean, From whom my husband had the Abbey land, Came hither railing for to know the truth, Whether my husband had the lands by grant, I told him all, where at he stormed amain, And swore he would cry quittance with the Churl, And if he did deny his interest Stab him, whatsoever did befall himself, whenas I saw his choler thus to rise, I whetted on the gentleman with words And to conclude, Mosbie, at last we grew To composition for my husband's death, I gave him ten pound to hire knaves, By some device to make away the Churl: When he is dead, he should have twenty more, And repossess his former lands again, On this we 'greed, and he is ridden straight To London, to bring his death about. But call you this good news? I sweet heart, be they not? 'Twere cheerful news, to hear the churl were dead, But trust me Alice, I take it passing ill, You would be so forgetful of our state, To make recount of it to every groom, What? to acquaint each stranger with our drifts, chiefly in case of murder, why 'tis the way, To make it open unto Arden's self. And bring thyself and me to ruin both, Forewarned, forearmed, who threats his enemy Lends him a sword to guard himself with all. I did it for the best. Well, seeing 'tis done, cheerly let it pass. You know this Green, is he not religious? A man I guess of great devotion. He is. Then sweet Alice let it pass, I have a drift Will quiet all, whatever is amiss. Now now Clarke, haue you found me false? Did I not plead the matter hard for you? You did. And what, will be a match, A match, i'faith sir I the day is mine, The Painter, lays his colours to the life, His pencil draws no shadows in his love. Susan is mine. You make her blush. What sister is it clerk must be the man? It resteth in your grant, some words are past, And happily we be grown unto a match, If you be willing that it shall be so? Ah master Clarke, it resteth at my grant, You see my sister's yet at my dispose, But so you'll grant me one thing I shall ask, I am content my sister shall be yours. What is it M. Mosbie? I do remember once in secret talk, You told me how you could compound by Art. A crucifix empoisoned: That who so look upon it should wax blind, And with the sent be stifled, that ere long, He should die poisoned, that did view it well. I would have you make me such a crucifix, And then I'll grant my sister shall be yours.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T12 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
They be so good, that I must laugh for ioy, Before I can begin to tell my tale, Lets heare them, that I may laugh for company This morning M. Greene, dick gréene I meane, From whome my husband had the Abby land, Came hether ratling for to know the trueth, Whether my husband had the la nds by grant, I tould him all, where at he stormd a maine, And sore he would cry quittance with the Churle, And if he did denye his enterest Stabbe him, whatsoever did befall him selfe, When as I sawe his choller thus to rise, I whetted on the gentleman with words And to conclude, Mosbie, at last we grew To composition for my husbands death, I gaue him ten pound to hire knaues, By some deuise to make away the Churle: When he is dead, he should haue twenty more, And repossesse his former lands againe, On this we greed, and he is ridden straight To London, to bring his death about. But call you this good newes? I sweete hart, be they not? I were cherefull newes, to hear the churle wer dead, But trust me Ales, I take it passing ill, You would be so forgetfull of our state, To make recount of it to euery groome, What? to acquaint each stranger with our drifts, Cheesely in case of murther, why tis the way, To make it open vnto Ardens selfe. And bring thy selfe and me to ruine both, Forewarnde, forearmde, who threats his enemye Lends him a sword to guarde himselfe with all. I did it for the best. Well, seing tis don, cherely let it pas. You know this Greene, is he not religious? A man I gesse of great deuotion. He is. Then sweete Ales let it pas, I have a drift Will quyet all, what euer is amis. Now now Clarke, haue you found me false? Did I not plead the matter hard for you? You did. And what, Wilt be a match, A match, I faith sir I the day is mine, The Painter, layes his cullours to the lyfe, His pensel draws no shadowes in his loue. Susan is mine. You make her blushe. What sister is it Clarke must be the man? Stresteth in your graunt, some words are past, And happely we be growne vnto a match, If you be willing that it shall be so? Ah maister Clarke, it resteth at my grant, You see my sister's yet at my dispose, But so youle graunt me one thing I shall aske, I am content my sister shall be yours. What is it M. Mosbie? I doo remember once in secret talke, You tould me how you could compound by Arte. A crucifix impoysoned: That who so looke vpon it should waxe blinde, And with the sent be stifeled, that ere long, He should dye poysond, that did view it wel. I would haue you make me such a crucifix, And then Ile grant my sister shall be yours.