Greene, Robert · published 1630 · first performed or written 1589 [1586-1590] (Annals) comedy · Queen Elizabeth's Men T15 Friars and holy orders in plot typicality 0.67 · 504 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T15: friar, lord, holy, friars, robin, peggy, lacie, angelo, love, nun.
We Castille Ladies are not very coy, Your Highness may command a greater boon: And glad were I to grace the Lincoln Earl With being partner of his marriage day. Gramercy, Nell, for I do love the Lord, As he that's second to myself in love. You love her? Madam Nell, never believe him you, though he swears he loves you. Why Raphe? Why, his love is like unto a tapster's glass that is broken with every touch; for he loved the fair maid of Fressingfield once out of all hoe; nay Ned, never wink upon me, I care not, I. Raphe tells all, you shall have a good Secretary of him. But, Lacy, haste thee post to Fressingfield: For ere thou hast fitted all things for her state, The solemn marriage day will be at hand. I go, my Lord. How shall we pass this day, my Lord? To horse, my Lord, the day is passing fair, we'll fly the Partridge, or go rouse the deer. Follow, my Lords, you shall not want for sport. What means the friar that frolicked it of late, To sit as melancholy in his Cell, As if he had neither lost nor won today? Ah Bungay, my brazenhead is spoiled, My glory gone, my seven years' study lost: The fame of Bacon bruited through the world, Shall end and perish with this deep disgrace. Bacon hath built foundation on his fame, So surely on the wings of true report, With acting strange and uncouth miracles, As this cannot infringe what he deserves. Bungay, sit down, for by prospective skill, I find this day shall fall out ominous, Some deadly act shall betide me ere I sleep: But what and wherein little can I guess. My mind is heavy whatsoe'er shall hap. Who's that knocks? Two Scholars that desire to speak with you. Bid them come in. Now, my youths, what would you have? Sir, we are Suffolk men & neighbouring friends, Our fathers in their Countries lusty Squires, Their lands adjoin, in Crackfield mine doth dwell, And his in Laxfield, we are College mates, Sworn brothers; as our fathers live as friends. To what end is all this? Hearing your worship kept within your Cell A glass prospective wherein men might see, What so their thoughts' or hearts' desire could wish, We come to know how that our fathers fare. My glass is free for every honest man. Sit down, and you shall see ere long, How or in what state your friendly fathers live, meanwhile tell me your names. Mine Lambert. And mine Serlsby. Bungay, I smell there will be a Tragedy. Serlsby, thou hast kept thine hour like a man, thouart worthy of the title of a Squire: That durst for proof of thy affection, And for thy mistresse favour prize thy blood; Thou know'st what words did pass at Fressingfield, Such shameless braves as manhood cannot brook: ay, for I scorn to bear such piercing taunts, Prepare thee, Serlsby, one of us will die.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1506–1567 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 28 of 33 in this edition
Length
504 words · 678 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T15 — Friars and holy orders in plotcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.671 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T19 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
We Caſtile Ladies are not very coy, Your Highneſſe may command a greater boone: And glad were I to grace the Lincolne Earle With being partner of his marriage day. Gramercy, Nell, for I doe loue the Lord, As he that's ſecond to my ſelfe in loue. You loue her? Madam Nell, neuer beleeue him you, though he ſweares he loues you. Why Raphe? Why, his loue is like vnto a Tapſters glaſſe that is broken with euery tutch; for he loued the faire maid of Freſingfield once out of all hoe; nay Ned, neuer winke vpon me, I care not, I. Raphe tels all, you ſhall haue a good Secretary of him. But, Lacy, haſte thee poaſt to Freſingfield: For ere thou haſt fitted all things for her ſtate, The ſolemne marriage day will be at hand. I goe, my Lord. How ſhall we paſſe this day, my Lord? To horſe, my Lord, the day is paſſing faire, Weele flie the Partridge, or goe rouze the Deere. Follow, my Lords, you ſhall not want for ſport. What meanes the Fryer that frolickt it of late, To ſit as melancholy in his Cell, As if he had neither loſt nor wonne to day? Ah Bungay, my brazen-head is ſpoil'd, My glory gone, my ſeuen yeeres ſtudy loſt: The fame of Bacon bruted through the world, Shall end and periſh with this deepe diſgrace. Bacon hath built foundation on his fame, So ſurely on the wings of true report, With acting ſtrange and vncoth miracles, As this cannot infringe what he deſerues. Bungay, ſit downe, for by proſpectiue skill, I find this day ſhall fall out ominous, Some deadly act ſhall betide me ere I ſleepe: But what and wherein little can I geſſe. My minde is heauy whatſoere ſhall hap. Who's that knockes? Two Schollers that deſire to ſpeake with you. Bid thē come in. Now, my youths, what would you haue? Sir, we are Suffolke men & neighbouring friends, Our fathers in their Countries luſty Squires, Their lands adioyne, in Crack field mine doth dwell, And his in Laxfield, we are Colledge mates, Sworne brothers; as our fathers liue as friends. To what end is all this? Hearing your worſhip kept within your Cell A glaſſe proſpectiue wherein men might ſee, What ſo their thoughts or hearts deſire could wiſh, We come to know how that our fathers fare. My glaſſe is free for euery honeſt man. Sit downe, and you ſhall ſee ere long, How or in what ſtate your friendly fathers liue, Meane while tell me your names. Mine Lambert. And mine Serlsby. Bungay, I ſmell there will be a Tragedy. Serlsby, thou haſt kept thine houre like a man, Th'art worthy of the title of a Squire: That durſt for proofe of thy affection, And for thy miſtreſſe fauour prize thy blood; Thou knowſt what words did paſſe at Freſingfield, Such ſhameleſſe braues as manhood cannot brooke: I, for I skorne to beare ſuch pearcing taunts, Prepare thee, Serlsby, one of vs will die.