Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1592 [c.1590-1604] (Annals) comedy · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T44 Drinking: wine, ale and taverns · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T44: drink, wine, numps, ale, butler, pot, sing, moy, drunk, win.
For God's sake a pot of small Ale. Wilt please your Lord drink a cup of sack? Wilt please your Honour taste of these Conserves? What raiment will your honour wear to day. I am Christopher Sly, call not me Honour nor Lordship: I ne'er drank sack in my life: and if you give me any Conserves, give me conserves of Beef: ne'er ask me what raiment I'll wear, for I have no more doublets than backs: no more stockings than legs: nor no more shoes than feet, nay sometime more feet than shoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the overleather. Heaven cease this idle humour in your Honor. Oh that a mighty man of such descent, Of such possessions, and so high esteem Should be infused with so foul a spirit. What would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, old Sies son of Burton-heath, by birth a Pedlar, by education a Card-maker, by transmutation a Beareheard, and now by present profession a Tinker. Ask Marrian Hacket the fat Alewife of Wincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not xiiii. d. on the score for sheer Ale, score me up for the lyingst knave in Christendom. What I am not distraught: here's— Oh this it is that makes your Lady mourn. Oh this is it that makes your servants droop. Hence comes it, that your kindred shuns your house As beaten hence by your strange Lunacy. Oh Noble Lord, bethink thee of thy birth, Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment, And banish hence these abject lowly dreams: Look how thy servants do attend on thee, Each in his office ready at thy beck. Wilt thou have Music? Hark Apollo plays, Music And twenty caged Nightingales do sing. Or wilt thou sleep? we'll have thee to a Couch, Softer and sweeter than the lustful bed On purpose trimmed up for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walk: we will bestrow the ground. Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shall be trapped, Their harness studded all with Gold and Pearl. Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soar Above the morning Lark. Or wilt thou hunt, Thy hounds shall make the Welkin answer them And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. Say thou wilt coarse, thy grayhounds are as swift As breathed Stags: I fleeter than the Roe. Dost thou love pictures? we will fetch thee straight Adonis painted by a running brook, And Cytherea all in sedges hid, Which seem to move and wanton with her breath, Even as the waving sedges play with wind. we'll show thee Io, as she was a Maid, And how she was beguiled and surprised, As lively painted, as the deed was done. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood, Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleeds, And at that sight shall sad Apollo weep, So workmanlie the blood and tears are drawn. Thou art a Lord, and nothing but a Lord: Thou hast a Lady far more Beautiful, Then any woman in this waning age.
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)
For Gods ſake a pot of ſmall Ale. Wilt pleaſe your Lord drink a cup of ſacke? Wilt pleaſe your Honor taſte of theſe Conſerues? What raiment wil your honor weare to day. I am Chriſtophero Sly, call not mee Honour nor Lordſhip: I ne're drank ſacke in my life: and if you giue me any Conſerues, giue me conſerues of Beefe: nere ask me what raiment Ile weare, for I haue no more doublets then backes: no more ſtockings then legges: nor no more ſhooes then feet, nay ſometime more feete then ſhooes, or ſuch ſhooes as my toes looke through the ouer-leather. Heauen ceaſe this idle humor in your Honor. Oh that a mightie man of ſuch diſcent, Of ſuch poſſeſſions, and ſo high eſteeme Should be infuſed with ſo foule a ſpirit. What would you make me mad? Am not I Chriſtopher Slie, old Sies ſonne of Burton-heath, by byrth a Pedler, by education a Cardmaker, by tranſmutation a Beare-heard, and now by preſent profeſſion a Tinker. Aske Marrian Hacket the fat Alewife of Wincot, if ſhee know me not: if ſhe ſay I am not xiiii.d. on the ſcore for ſheere Ale, ſcore me vp for the lyingſt knaue in Chriſtendome. What I am not beſtraught: here's— Oh this it is that makes your Ladie mourne. Oh this is it that makes your ſeruants droop. Hence comes it, that your kindred ſhuns your houſe As beaten hence by your ſtrange Lunacie. Oh Noble Lord, bethinke thee of thy birth, Call home thy ancient thoughts from baniſhment, And baniſh hence theſe abiect lowlie dreames: Looke how thy ſeruants do attend on thee, Each in his office readie at thy becke. Wilt thou haue Muſicke? Harke Apollo plaies, Muſick And twentie caged Nightingales do ſing. Or wilt thou ſleepe? Wee'l haue thee to a Couch, Softer and ſweeter then the luſtfull bed On purpoſe trim'd vp for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walke: we wil beſtrow the ground. Or wilt thou ride? Thy horſes ſhal be trap'd, Their harneſſe ſtudded all with Gold and Pearle. Doſt thou loue hawking? Thou haſt hawkes will ſoare Aboue the morning Larke. Or wilt thou hunt, Thy hounds ſhall make the Welkin anſwer them And fetch ſhrill ecchoes from the hollow earth. Say thou wilt courſe, thy gray-hounds are as ſwift As breathed Stags: I fleeter then the Roe. Doſt thou loue pictures? we wil fetch thee ſtrait Adonis painted by a running brooke, And Citherea all in ſedges hid, Which ſeeme to moue and wanton with her breath, Euen as the wauing ſedges play with winde. Wee'l ſhew thee Io, as ſhe was a Maid, And how ſhe was beguiled and ſurpriz'd, As liuelie painted, as the deede was done. Or Daphne roming through a thornie wood, Scratching her legs, that one ſhal ſweare ſhe bleeds, And at that ſight ſhal ſad Apollo weepe, So workmanlie the blood and teares are drawne. Thou art a Lord, and nothing but a Lord: Thou haſt a Ladie farre more Beautifull, Then any woman in this waining age.