Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1597 [c.1597-1598] (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T8 Captains, gallants and cheats typicality 0.79 · 483 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T8: captain, master, money, gentleman, little, lieutenant, rogue, pray, minos, honest.
Be gone, good Ancient: this will grow to a Brawl anon. Die men, like Dogs; give Crowns like Pins: Have we not Hiren here? On my word (Captain) there's none such here. What the goodyere, do you think I would deny her? I pray be quiet. Then feed, and be fat (my fair Calipolis.) Come, give me some Sack, Si fortune me torment, sperato me content. Fear we broadsides? No, let the Fiend give fire: Give me some Sack: and Sweetheart lie thou there: Come we to full Points here, and are et cetera's nothing? Pistol, I would be quiet. Sweet Knight, I kiss thy Neaffe: what? we have seen the seven Stars. Thrust him down stairs, I cannot endure such a Fustian Rascal. Thrust him down stairs? know we not Galloway Nags? Quoit him down (Bardolph) like a shove-groat shilling: nay, if he do nothing but speak nothing, he shall be nothing here. Come, get you down stairs. What? shall we have Incision? shall we imbrue? then Death rock me asleep, abridge my doleful days: why then let grievous, ghastly, gaping Wounds, untwined the Sisters three: Come Atropos, I say. Here's good stuff toward. Give me my Rapier, Boy. I prithee Iack, I prithee do not draw. Get you down stairs. Here's a goodly tumult: I'll forswear keeping house, before I'll be in these tirrits, and frights. So: Murder I warrant now. Alas, alas, put up your naked Weapons, put up your naked Weapons. I prithee Iack be quiet, the Rascal is gone: ah, you whoreson little valiant Villain, you. Are you not hurt i' th' Groin? me thought he made a shrewd Thrust at your Belly. Have you turned him out of doors? Yes Sir: the Rascall's drunk: you have hurt him (Sir) in the shoulder. A Rascal to brave me. Ah, you sweet little Rogue, you: alas, poor Ape, how thou sweat'st? Come, let me wipe thy Face: Come on, you whoreson Chaps: Ah Rogue, I love thee: Thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth five of Agamemnon, and ten times better than the nine Worthies: ah Villain. A rascally Slave, I will toss the Rogue in a Blanket. Do, if thou darest for thy heart: if thou dost, I'll canvas thee between a pair of Sheets. The Music is come, Sir. Let them play: play Sirs. Sat on my Knee, Dol. A Rascal, bragging Slave: the Rogue fled from me like Quicksilver. And thou followd'st him like a Church: thou whoreson little tidy Bartholomew Bore-pigge, when wilt thou leave fight on days, and foining on nights, and begin to patch up thine old Body for Heaven? Peace (good Dol) do not speak like a Deaths-head: do not bid me remember mine end. Sirrah, what humour is the Prince of? A good shallow young fellow: he would have made a good Pantler, he would have chipped Bread well.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 721–751 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 20 of 51 in this edition
Length
483 words · 739 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T8 — Captains, gallants and cheatscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.789 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T11 · seed 44: T14 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Be gone, good Ancient: this will grow to a Brawle anon. Die men, like Dogges; giue Crownes like Pinnes: Haue we not Hiren here? On my word (Captaine) there's none ſuch here. What the good-yere, doe you thinke I would denye her? I pray be quiet. Then feed, and be fat (my faire Calipolis.) Come, giue me ſome Sack, Si fortune me tormente, ſperato me contente. Feare wee broad-ſides? No, let the Fiend giue fire: Giue me ſome Sack: and Sweet-heart lye thou there: Come wee to full Points here, and are et cetera's nothing? Pistol, I would be quiet. Sweet Knight, I kiſſe thy Neaffe: what? wee haue ſeene the ſeuen Starres. Thruſt him downe ſtayres, I cannot endure ſuch a Fuſtian Raſcall. Thruſt him downe ſtayres? know we not Galloway Nagges? Quoit him downe (Bardolph) like a ſhoue-groat ſhilling: nay, if hee doe nothing but ſpeake nothing, hee ſhall be nothing here. Come, get you downe ſtayres. What? ſhall wee haue Inciſion? ſhall wee embrew? then Death rocke me aſleepe, abridge my dolefull dayes: why then let grieuous, gaſtly, gaping Wounds, vntwin'd the Siſters three: Come Atropos, I ſay. Here's good ſtuffe toward. Giue me my Rapier, Boy. I prethee Iack, I prethee doe not draw. Get you downe ſtayres. Here's a goodly tumult: Ile forſweare keeping houſe, before Ile be in theſe tirrits, and frights. So: Murther I warrant now. Alas, alas, put vp your naked Weapons, put vp your naked Weapons. I prethee Iack be quiet, the Raſcall is gone: ah, you whorſon little valiant Villaine, you. Are you not hurt i' th' Groyne? me thought hee made a ſhrewd Thruſt at your Belly. Haue you turn'd him out of doores? Yes Sir: the Raſcall's drunke: you haue hurt him (Sir) in the ſhoulder. A Raſcall to braue me. Ah, you ſweet little Rogue, you: alas, poore Ape, how thou ſweat'ſt? Come, let me wipe thy Face: Come on, you whorſon Chops: Ah Rogue, I loue thee: Thou art as valorous as Hector of Troy, worth fiue of Agamemnon, and tenne times better then the nine Worthies: ah Villaine. A raſcally Slaue, I will toſſe the Rogue in a Blanket. Doe, if thou dar'ſt for thy heart: if thou doo'ſt, Ile canuas thee betweene a paire of Sheetes. The Muſique is come, Sir. Let them play: play Sirs. Sit on my Knee, Dol. A Raſcall, bragging Slaue: the Rogue fled from me like Quick-ſiluer. And thou followd'ſt him like a Church: thou whorſon little tydie Bartholmew Bore-pigge, when wilt thou leaue fighting on dayes, and foyning on nights, and begin to patch vp thine old Body for Heauen? Peace (good Dol) doe not ſpeake like a Deaths-head: doe not bid me remember mine end. Sirrha, what humor is the Prince of? A good ſhallow young fellow: hee would haue made a good Pantler, hee would haue chipp'd Bread well.