Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1595 (Annals) comedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T16 Gallantry: ladies, lordships and complim · 513 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T16: lady, madam, gentleman, lordship, ladies, honour, mistress, sweet, court, servant.
Veal quoth the Dutchman: is not Veal a Calf? A Calf fair Lady? No, a fair Lord Calf. Let's part the word. No, I'll not be your half: Take all and wean it, it may prove an Ox. Look how you but yourself in those sharp mocks. Will you give horns chaste Lady? Do not so. Then die a Calf before your horns do grow. One word in private with you ere I die. Bleat softly then, the Butcher hears you cry. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the Razors edge, invisible: Cutting a smaller hair than may be seen, Above the sense of sense so sensible: Seemeth their conference, their conceits have wings, Fleeter than arrows, bullets wind, thought, swifter things Not one word more my maids, break off, break off. By heaven, all dry beaten with pure scoff. Farewell mad Wenches, you have simple wits. Twenty adieus my frozen Muscovites. Are these the breed of wits so wondered at? Tapers they are, with your sweet breaths puffed out. Well-liking wits they have, gross, gross, fat, fat. O poverty in wit, Kingly poor flout. Will they not (think you) hang themselves to night? Or ever but in vizards show their faces: This pert Berowne was out of countenance quite. They were all in lamentable cases. The King was weeping ripe for a good word. Berowne did swear himself out of all suit. Dumaine was at my service, and his sword: No point (quoth I:) my servant strait was mute. Lord Longavill said I came over his hart: And trow you what he called me? Qualm perhaps. Yes in good faith. Go sickness as thou art. Well, better wits have worn plain statute caps, But will you hear; the King is my love sworn. And quick Berowne hath plighted faith to me. And Longavill was for my service borne. Dumain is mine as sure as bark on tree. Madam, and pretty mistresses give care, Immediately they will again be here In their own shapes: for it can never be, They will digest this harsh indignity. Will they return? They will they will, God knows, And leap for joy, though they are lame with blows: Therefore change Favours, and when they repair, Blow like sweet Roses, in this summer air. How blow? how blow? Speak to be understood. Fair Ladies masked, are Roses in their bud: Dismaskt, their damask sweet commixture shown, Are Angels vailing clouds, or Roses blown. Avaunt perplexity: What shall we do, If they return in their own shapes to woe? Good Madam, if by me you'll be advised, Let's mock them still as well known as disguised: Let us complain to them what fools were hear, Disguised like Muscovites in shapeless gear: And wonder what they were, and to what end Their shallow shows, and Prologue vildly penned: And their rough carriage so ridiculous, Should be presented at our Tent to us. Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand. Whip to our Tents, as Roes runs over Land. Fair sir, God save you. where's the Princess?
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)
Veale quoth the Dutch-man: is not Veale a Calfe? A Calfe faire Ladie? No, a faire Lord Calfe. Let's part the word. No, Ile not be your halfe: Take all and weane it, it may proue an Oxe. Looke how you but your ſelfe in thoſe ſharpe mockes. Will you giue hornes chaſt Ladie? Do not ſo. Then die a Calfe before your horns do grow. One word in priuate with you ere I die. Bleat ſoftly then, the Butcher heares you cry. The tongues of mocking wenches are as keen As is the Razors edge, inuiſible: Cutting a ſmaller haire then may be ſeene, Aboue the ſenſe of ſence ſo ſenſible: Seemeth their conference, their conceits haue wings, Fleeter then arrows, bullets wind, thoght, ſwifter things Not one word more my maides, breake off, breake off. By heauen, all drie beaten with pure ſcoffe. Farewell madde Wenches, you haue ſimple wits. Twentie adieus my frozen Muſcouits. Are theſe the breed of wits ſo wondred at? Tapers they are, with your ſweete breathes puft out. Wel-liking wits they haue, groſſe, groſſe, fat, fat. O pouertie in wit, Kingly poore flout. Will they not (thinke you) hang themſelues to night? Or euer but in vizards ſhew their faces: This pert Berowne was out of count'nance quite. They were all in lamentable caſes. The King was vveeping ripe for a good word. Berowne did ſweare himſelfe out of all ſuite. Dumaine was at my ſeruice, and his ſword: No point (quoth I:) my ſeruant ſtraight vvas mute. Lord Longauill ſaid I came ore his hart: And trow you vvhat he call'd me? Qualme perhaps. Yes in good faith. Go ſickneſſe as thou art. Well, better wits haue worne plain ſtatute caps, But vvil you heare; the King is my loue ſworne. And quicke Berowne hath plighted faith to me. And Longauill was for my ſeruice borne. Dumaine is mine as ſure as barke on tree. Madam, and prettie miſtreſſes giue care, Immediately they will againe be heere In their owne ſhapes: for it can neuer be, They will digeſt this harſh indignitie. Will they returne? They will they will, God knowes, And leape for ioy, though they are lame with blowes: Therefore change Fauours, and when they repaire, Blow like ſweet Roſes, in this ſummer aire. How blovv? how blovv? Speake to bee vnderſtood. Faire Ladies maskt, are Roſes in their bud: Diſmaskt, their damaske ſweet commixture ſhowne, Are Angels vailing clouds, or Roſes blowne. Auant perplexitie: What ſhall vve do, If they returne in their owne ſhapes to wo? Good Madam, if by me you'l be aduis'd, Let's mocke them ſtill as well knowne as diſguis'd: Let vs complaine to them vvhat fooles were heare, Diſguis'd like Muſcouites in ſhapeleſſe geare: And wonder what they were, and to what end Their ſhallow ſhowes, and Prologue vildely pen'd: And their rough carriage ſo ridiculous, Should be preſented at our Tent to vs. Ladies, withdraw: the gallants are at hand. Whip to our Tents, as Roes runnes ore Land. Faire ſir, God ſaue you. Wher's the Princeſſe?