Wilson, Robert / Drayton, Michael / Munday, Anthony / Hathaway, Richard · published 1600 · first performed or written 1599 [Oct 16, payment] (Annals) history · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 490 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
Stand sirrah, what art thou? Be saint Patrick mester is poor Irisman, is a leufter. Sirrah, sirrah, you are a damned rogue, you have killed a man here, and rifled him of all that he has, 'sblood you rogue deliver, or i'll not leave you so much as an Irish hair above your shoulders, you whoreson Irish dog, sirrah untruss presently, come off and dispatch, or by this cross i'll fetch your head off as clean as a bark. Wees me saint Patrick, Isee kill me mester for chain and his ring, and nows be rob of all, mees undo. avant you rascal, go sirrah, be walking, come Doll the devil laughs, when one thief robs another, come mad wench, we'll to saint Albons, and revel in our bower, heigh my brave girl. O thou art old sir Iohn, when all's done i'faith. Be me trow mester is poor Irisman, is want judging, is have no money, is starve and cold, good mester give her some meat, is famise and tie. I'faith my fellow I have no lodging, but what I keep for my guess, that I may not disappoint, as for meat thou shalt have such as there is, & if thou wilt lie in the barn, there's fair straw, and room enough. Is thanke my mester heartily, de straw is good bed for me. Ho Robin? Who calls? Show this poor Irishman into the barn, go sirrah. Ho, who's within here, who looks to the horses? God's hat here's fine work, the hens in the manger, and the hogs in the litter, a bot's found you all, here's a house well looked too yvaith. Mass goffe Club, Isee very cawd. Get in Kate, get in to fire and warm thee. Ho Iohn ostler. What gaffer Club, welcome to saint Albons, How does all our friends in Lancashire? Well God have mercy Iohn, how does Tom, where's he? O Tom is gone from hence, he's at the three horse-loves at Stony-stratford, how does old Dick Dunne? God's hat old Dunne has been mired in a slough in Brickhill-lane, a plague found it, yonder is such abomination weather as never was seen. God's hat thief, have one half peck of pease and oats more for that, as I am Iohn Ostler, he has been ever as good a jade as ever traveled. Faith well said old Jack, thou art the old lad still. Come Gaffer Club, unload, unload, and get to supper, and I'll rub dun the while. Come. Come Madam, happily escaped, here let us sit, This place is far remote from any path, And here awhile our weary limbs may rest, To take refreshing, free from the pursuit Of envious Winchester. But where (my Lord,) Shall we find rest for our disquiet minds? There dwell untamed thoughts that hardly stoop, To such abasement of disdained rags, We were not wont to travel thus by night, Especially on foot.
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)
Stand sirra, what art thou? Be saint Patricke mester is pore Irisman, is a leufter. Sirra, sirra, you are a damned rogue, you haue killed a man here, and rifled him of all that he has, sbloud you rogue deliuer, or ile not leaue you so much as an Irish haire aboue your shoulders, you whorson Irish dogge, sirra vntrusse presently, come off and dispatch, or by this crosse ile fetch your head off as cleane as a barke. Wees me saint Patricke, Ise kill me mester for chaine and his ring, and nows be rob of all, mees vndoo. Auant you rascal, go sirra, be walking, come Doll the diuel laughes, when one theefe robs another, come madde wench, weele to saint Albons, and reuel in our bower, hey my braue girle. O thou art old sir Iohn, when all's done yfaith. Be me tro mester is pore Irisman, is want ludging, is haue no mony, is starue and cold, good mester giue her some meate, is famise and tie. Yfaith my fellow I haue no lodging, but what I keep for my guesse, that I may not disapoint, as for meate thou shalt haue such as there is, & if thou wilt lie in the barne, theres faire straw, and roome enough. Is thanke my mester hartily, de straw is good bed for me. Ho Robin? Who calls? Shew this poore Irishman into the barne, go sirra. Ho, who's within here, who lookes to the horses? Gods hatte heres fine worke, the hens in the manger, and the hogs in the litter, a bots found you all, heres a house well lookt too yvaith. Mas goffe Club, Ise very cawd. Get in Kate, get in to fier and warme thee. Ho Iohn Hostler. What gaffer Club, welcome to saint Albons, How does all our friends in Lancashire? Well God haue mercie Iohn, how does Tom, wheres he? O Tom is gone from hence, hees at the three horse-loues at Stony-stratford, how does old Dick Dunne? Gods hatte old Dunne has bin moyerd in a slough in Brickhil-lane, a plague found it, yonder is such abhomination weather as neuer was seene. Gods hat thiefe, haue one half pecke of pease and oates more for that, as I am Iohn Ostler, hee has been euer as good a iade as euer traueld. Faith well said old Iacke, thou art the old lad stil. Come Gaffer Club, vnlode, vnlode, and get to supper, and Ile rub dunne the while. Come. Come Madam, happily escapt, here let vs sit, This place is farre remote from any path, And here awhile our weary limbs may rest, To take refreshing, free from the pursuite Of enuious Winchester. But where (my Lord,) Shall we find rest for our disquiet minds? There dwell vntamed thoughts that hardly stoupe, To such abasemen of disdained rags, We were not wont to trauell thus by night, Especially on foote.