Dekker, Thomas · published 1600 · first performed or written 1599 [Nov 9-30, payment] (Annals) romance · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T14 Royal love, favour and dynastic relation · 525 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
Not a stick of wood? Some child of envy has buzzed this stratagem into the king's ear, of purpose to disgrace me: I have invited his majesty, and though it cost me a Million, i'll feast him: Shadow, thou shalt hire a hundred or two of Carts, with them post to all the Grocers in London, buy up all the cinnamon, Cloves, Nutmegs, irish and all other spices, that have any strong heart, and with them make fires to prepare our Cookery: Ere Fortunatus' son look red with shame, he'll dress a king's feast in a spiced flame. This device, Sir, will be somewhat a kin to Lady Pride, 'twill ask cost. Fetch twenty Porters, i'll laid all with gold. First, master, fill these bags. Come then, hold up, how now? tricks, new crotchets, Madam Fortune? Dry as an eel-skin? Shadow, take thou my Gold out. Why Sir, here's none in. Ha, let me see: O here's a bastard cheek, I see now 'tis not mine: 'tis counterfeit, 'tis so: slave thou hast robbed thy master. Not of a penny, I have been as true a steward. Vengeance on thee and on thy stewardship. Yet wherefore curse I thee? thy leaden soul Had never power to mount up to the knowledge Of the rich mystery closed in my purse. Oh no, i'll curse myself, mine eyes i'll curse, They have betrayed me, I will curse my tongue, That hath betrayed me: I'll curse Agrippine, She hath betrayed me: Sirens cease to sing, Your charms have ta'en effect, for now I see, All your enchantments were, to cozen me. What shall I do with this ten pound, Sir? Go buy with it a Chain and hang thyself. Now think I on my Father's prophecy. Tell none (quoth he) the virtue, if you do, Much shame, much grief, much danger follows you. With tears I credit his divinity. O fingers, were you upright justices, You would tear out mine eyes: had not they gazed On the frail colour of a painted cheek, None had betrayed me: henceforth i'll defy All beauty, and will call a lovely eye, A Sun whose scorching beams burn up our joys, Or turn them black like Ethiopians. O women, wherefore are you borne men's woe, Why are your faces framed Angelical? Your hearts of sponges, soft and smooth in show, But touched, with poison they do overflow. Had sacred wisdom been my Father's Fate, He had died happy, I lived fortunate. Shadow, be are this to beauteous Agrippine, With it this message, tell her, i'll reprove Her covetous sin the less, because for gold, I see that most men's souls too cheap are sold. Shall I buy these spices today or tomorrow? Tomorrow? ay, tomorrow thou shalt buy them, Tomorrow tell the Princess I will love her, Tomorrow tell the king, i'll banquet him, Tomorrow, Shadow, will I give thee gold, Tomorrow pride goes bare and lust acold. Tomorrow will the rich man feed the poor. And vice tomorrow virtue will adore, Tomorrow beggars shall be crowned kings, This No-time, morrows-time, no sweetness sings: I pray thee hence: bear that to Agrippine.
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)
Not a sticke of wood? Some child of enuie has buzd this stratagem into the kings eare, of purpose to disgrace me: I haue inuited his maiestie, and though it cost me a Million, ile feast him: Shadow, thou shalt hyre a hundred or two of Carts, with them post to all the Grocers in London, buy vp all the Cynamon, Cloues, Nutmegs, Licorish and all other spices, that haue any strong heart, and with them make fires to prepare our Cookerie: Ere Fortunatus sonne looke red with shame, Héele dresse a Kings feast in a spiced flame. This diuice, Sir, will bee somewhat a kin to Lady Pride, twill aske cost. Fetch twentie Porters, ile laid all with gold. First, master, fil these bags. Come then, hold vp, how now? trickes, new crochets, Madam Fortune? Drie as an Eele-skin? Shaddow, take thou my Gold out. Why Sir, here's none in. Ha, let me see: O heres a bastard chéeke, I sée now tis not mine: tis counterfet, Tis so: slaue thou hast robd thy master. Not of a peny, I haue béene as true a steward. Uengeance on thée and on thy stewardship. Yet wherefore curse I thée? thy leaden soule Had neuer power to mount vp to the knowledge Of the rich misterie closde in my purse. Oh no, ile curse my selfe, mine eyes ile curse, They haue betrayd me, I will curse my tongue, That hath betraid me: Ile curse Agripyne, Shée hath betraid me: Sirens cease to sing, Your charmes haue tane effect, for now I sée, All your inchantments were, to cosen me. What shall I doe with this ten pound, Sir? Goe buy with it a Chaine and hang thy selfe. Now thinke I on my Fathers prophecie. Tell none (quoth he) the vertue, if you doe, Much shame, much griefe, much danger follows you. With teares I credit his diuinitie. O fingers, were you vpright Iustices, You would teare out mine eyes: had not they gazde On the fraile colour of a painted chéeke, None had betraid me: henceforth ile defie All beautie, and will call a lovely eye, A Sun whose scorching beames burne vp our ioyes, Or turne them blacke like Ethiopians. O women, wherefore are you borne mens woe, Why are your faces fram'd Angelicall? Your hearts of spunges, soft and smooth in shew, But toucht, with poyson they doe ouer-flow. Had sacred wisedome béene my Fathers Fate, He had died happie, I liu'd fortunate. Shaddow, be are this to beautious Agripyne, With it this message, tell her, ile reprooue Her couetous sinne the lesse, because for gold, I sée that most mens soules too cheape are sold. Shal I buy these spices to day or to morrow▪ To morrow? I, to morrow thou shalt buy them, To morrow tell the Princesse I wil loue her, To morrow tell the king, ile banquet him, To morrow, Shaddow, will I giue thée gold, To morrow pride goes bare and lust acold. To morrow will the rich man féede the poore. And vice to morrow vertue will adore, To morrow beggers shall be crowned kings, This No-time, morrowes-time, no swéetnes sings: I pray thée hence: beare that to Agripyne.