Porter, Henry · published 1599 · first performed or written 1598(?) (Annals) comedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men unassigned nearest T13 Knights, squires and ladies · 502 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T13: knight, raph, lady, knights, george, master, squire, rafe, pray, god.
One of my colour, and a better too. One of your colour, I near remember him, one of that colour. Or of that complexion. What's that ye call complexion in a horse. The colour sir. Set me a colour on your jest, or I will: Nay good sir hold your hands. What, shall we have it? Why sir, I cannot paint. Well then, I can. and I shall find a pencil for ye sir. Then I must find the table if you do. A whoreson barren wicked urchin. Look how you chafe, you would be angry more, if I should tell it you. Go to, I'll anger ye and if you do not. Why sir, the horse that I do mean, Hath a leg both straight and clean. That hath nor spavin, splint nor flaw. But is the best that ever ye saw, A pretty rising knee, O knee! It is as round as round may be, The full flank makes the buttock round, This palfrey standeth on no ground, whenas my master's on her back, If that he once do say but, tick, And if he prick her, you shall see Her gallop amain, she is so free, And if he give her but a nod, She thinks it is a riding rod: And if he'll have her softly go, Than she trips it like a do, She comes so easy with the rain, A twine thread turns her back again, And truly I did near see yet; A horse play proudlier on the bit, My master with good managing, Brought her first unto the ring, He likewise taught her to curvet, To run and suddenly to set, she's cunning in the wild goose race, Nay she's apt to every pace, And to prove her colour good, A flea enamoured of her blood, digged for channels in her neck, And there made many a crimson speck, I think there's none that use to ride, But can her pleasant trot abide, She goes so even upon the way, She will not stumble in a day, And when my master. What do I? Nay nothing sir. O fie Frank fie, Nay, nay, your reason hath no justice now, I must needs say, persuade him first to speak, Then chide him for it: tell me pretty wag, Where stands his prancer, in what Inn or stable? Or hath thy master put her out to run, Then in what field, what champion feeds this courser? This well past bonny steed that thou so praisest. Faith sir I think. Villain, what do ye think? I think that you sir have been asked by many, But yet I never heard that ye told any, Well boy, than I will add one more to many, And ask thy master where this jennet feeds: Come Frank tell me, nay prithee tell me Frank, My good horse-master tell me, by this light I will not steal her from thee: if I do, Let me beheld a felon to thy love.
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)
One of my colour, and a better too. One of your colour, I nere remember him, one of that colour. Or of that complexion. Whats that ye call complexion in a horse. The colour sir. Set me a colour on your iest, or I will: Nay good sir hold your hands. What, shal we haue it? Why sir, I cannot paint. Well then, I can. and I shall find a pesill for ye sir. Then I must finde the table if you do. A whoreson barren wicked rchen. Looke how you chafe, you would be angry more, if I should tell it you. Go to, Ile anger ye and if you do not. Why sir, the horse that I do meane, Hath a leg both straight and cleane. That hath nor spauen, splint nor flawe. But is the best that euer ye saw, A pretierising knee, O knee! It is as round as round may be, The full flanke makes the buttock round, This palfray standeth on no ground, When as my maister's on her backe, If that he once do say but, ticke, And if he pricke her, you shall see Her gallop amaine, she is so free, And if he giue her but a nod, She thinkes it is a riding rod: And if hee'l haue her softly go, Then she trips it like a Doe, She comes so easie with the raine, A twine thred turnes her backe againe, And truly I did nere see yet; A horse play proudlier on the bit, My maister with good managing, Brought her first vnto the ring, He likewise taught herto coruet, To runne and suddainlie to set, Shee's cunning in the wilde goose race, Nay shee's apt to euery pace, And to prooue her colour good, A flea enamourd of her blood, Digd for channels in her neck, And there made many a crimson speck, I thinke theres none that vse to ride, But can her pleasant trot abide, She goes o euen vpon the way, She will not stumble in a day, And when my master. What do I? Nay nothing sir. O fie Franke fie, Nay, nay, your reason hath no iustice now, I must needs say, perswade him first to speake, Then chide him for it: tell me prettie wag, Where stands his prawncer, in what Inne or stable? Or hath thy maister put her out to runne, Then in what field, what champion feeds this courser? This well paste bonnie steed that thou so praisest. Faith sir I thinke. Villaine, what do yee thinke? I thinke that you sir haue bene askt by many, But yet I neuer heard that yee tolde any, Well boy, then I will adde one more to many, Ad aske thy maister where this Iennet feeds: Come Franke tell me, nay prethie tell me Franke, My good horse-maister tell me, by this light I will not steale her from thee: if I do, Let me beheld a selone to thy loue.