Shakespeare, William · published 1598 · first performed or written 1597 [c.1596-1597] (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T42 English historical figures: a mixed clus typicality 0.85 · 483 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T42: harry, percy, lord, king, god, falstalffe, frances, mowbray, life, mortimer.
Nay but hark you Frances, for the sugar thou gavest me, ttwas a pennyworth, wast not? O Lord, I would it had been two. I will give thee for it a thousand pound, ask me when thou wilt, and thou shalt have it, Frances. Anon, anon. Anon Frances, no Frances, but to morrow Frances: or Frances a Thursday; or indeed Frances when thou wilt. But Frances. My Lord. Wilt thou rob this leathern jerkin, crystal button, non-pated, agate ring, puke stocking, Caddice garter, smooth tongue, spanish pouch? O Lord sir, who do you mean? Why then your brown bastard is your only drink? for look you Frances, your white canvas doublet will fulley. In Barbary sir, it cannot come to so much. What sir? Frances. Away you rogue, dost thou not hear them call. What stand'st thou still and hearst such a calling: look to the guests within. My Lord, old sir Iohn with half a dozen more are at the door, shall I let them in? Let them alone a while, and then open the door: Poines. Anon, anon sir. Sirrah, Falstalffe and the rest of the thieves are at the door, shall we be merry? As merry as Crickets my lad, but hark ye, what cunning match have you made with this jest of the Drawer: come what's the issue? I am now of all humours, that have showed themselves humours since the old days of good man Adam, to the pupil age of this present twelve a clock at midnight. What's a clock Frances? Anon, anon sir. That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a Parrot, and yet the son of a woman. His industry is up stairs and down stairs, his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percy's mind, the Hotspur of the North, he that kills me some six or seven dozen of Scots at a breakfast: washes his hands, and says to his wife, fie upon this quiet life, I want work. O my sweet Harry says she how many hast thou killed to day? Give my roane horse a drench (says he) and answers some fourteen an hour after: a trifle, a trifle. I prithee call in Falstalffe, i'll play Percy, and that damned brawn shall play dame Mortimer his wife. Rivo says the drunkard: call in Ribs, call in Tallow. Welcome Iacke, where hast thou been? A plague of all cowards I say, and a vengeance too, marry and Amen: give me a cup of sack boy. Ear Head this life long i'll sow neatherstocks and mend them, and foot them too. A plague of all cowards. Give me a cup of sache rogue, is there no virtue extant? Didst thou never see Titan kiss a dish of butter, pitiful hearted Titan that melted at the sweet tale of the sons, if thou didst, then behold that compound.
seed 43: T43 · seed 44: T43 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Nay but harke you Frances, for the sugar thou gauest me, twas a peniworth, wast not? O Lord, I would it had bin two. I will giue thee for it a thousand pound, aske me when thou wilt, and thou shalt haue it, Frances. Anon, anon. Anon Frances, no Frances, but to morrow Frances: or Frances a Thursday; or indeede Fraunces when thou wilt. But Fraunces. My Lord. Wilt thou rob this leathern Ierkin, cristall button, no pated, agat ring, puke stocking, Caddice garter, smothe tongue, spanish pouch? O Lord sir, who do you meane? Why then your brown bastard is your only drinke? for looke you Fraunces, your white canuas doublet will fulley. In Barbary sir, it cannot come to so much. What sir? Frances. Away you rogue, dost thou not heare them cal. What standst thou sil and hearst such a calling: to the guests within. My Lord, old sir Iohn with halfe a douzen more are at the doore, shal I let them in? Let them alone a while, and then open the doore: Poines. Anon, anon sir. Sirrha, Falstalffe and the rest of the theeues are at the doore, shall we be merrie? As merry as Crickets my lad, but harke ye, what cunning match haue you made with this iest of the Drawer: come whats the issue? I am now of all humors, that haue shewed themselues humors since the oulde dayes of good man Adam, to the pupill age of this present twelue a clocke at midnight. Whats a clocke Frances? Anon, anon sir. That euer this fellowe should haue fewer wordes then a Parrat, and yet the sonne of a woman. His industrie is vp staires and down staires, his eloquence the parcel of a reckoning. I am not yet of Percyes minde, the Hotspur of the North, he that kils mee some sixe or seuen douzen of Scots at a breakfast: washes his handes, and saies to his wife, fie vpon this quiet life, I want worke. O my sweet Harry saies she how manie hast thou kild to day? Giue my roane horse a drench (sayes hee) and aunsweres some foureteene an houre after: a trifle, a trifle. I preethe call in Falstalffe, ile play Percy, and that damnde brawne shall play dame Mortimer his wife. Riuo saies the drunkarde: call in Ribs, cal in Tallow. Welcome Iacke, where hast thou bin? A plague of al cowards I say, and a vengeance too, marry and Amen: giue me a cup of sacke boy. Eare Head this life long ile sow neatherstocks and mend them, and foote them too. A plague of all cowards. Giue me a cup of sache rogue, is there no vertue extant? Didst thou neuer see Titan kisse a dish of butter, pittifull harted Titan that melted at the sweet tale of the sonnes, if thou didst, then behold that compound.