The Shoemaker's Holiday, or The Gentle Craft · chunk 19 of 38
Dekker, Thomas · published 1600 · first performed or written 1599 [Jul 15, payment] (Annals) comedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 503 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
Good morrow good Roger, I thank you my good people all. Firk, hold up thy hand, here's a threepenny piece for thy tidings. 'tis but three half pence, I think: yes, 'tis three pence, I smell the Rose. But mistress, be ruled by me, and do not speak so pulingly. 'tis her worship speaks so, and not she, no faith mistress, speak me in the old key, too it Firk, there good Firke, ply your business Hodge, Hodge, with a full mouth: I'll fill your bellies with good cheer till they cry twang. See mine liever brother, here count my meester. Welcome home master shrieve, I pray God continue you in health and wealth. See here my Maggy, a chain, a gold chain for Simon Eyre, I shall make thee a Lady, here's a French hood for thee, on with it, on with it, dress thy brows with this flap of a shoulder of mutton, to make thee look lovely: where be my fine men? Roger, I'll make over my shop and tools to thee: Firk, thou shalt be the foreman: Hans, thou shalt have an hundred for twenty, be as mad knaves as your master Sim Eyre hath been, & you shall live to be Sheriffs of London: how dost thou like me Margerie? Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne, Firk, Hodge, and Hans. I forsooth, what says your worship mistress Sheriff? Worship and honour you babylonian knaves, for the Gentle Craft: but I forgot myself, I am bidden by my Lord Maior to dinner to old Foord, he's gone before, I must after: come Hodge, on with your trinkets: now my true Troians, my fine Firk, my dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some device, some odd crotchets, some morris, or such like, for the honour of the gentle shoemakers, meet me at old Foord, you know my mind: come Madge, away shut up the shop knaves, and make holiday. O rare, O brave, come Hodge, follow me Hans, we'll be with them for a morris dance. Trust me you are as welcome to old Foord, as I myself. Truly I thank your Lordship. Would our bad cheer were worth the thanks you give. Good cheer my Lord Maior, fine cheer, a fine house, fine walls, all fine and neat. Now by my troth I'll tell thee master Eyre, It does me good and all my brethren, That such a madcap fellow as thyself Is entered into our society. ay but my Lord, he must learn now to put on gravity. Peace Maggy, a fig for gravity, when I go to Guildhall in my scarlet gown, I'll look as demurely as a saint, and speak as gravely as a Justice of peace, but now I am here at old Foord, at my good Lord majors house, let it go by, vanish Maggy, I'll be merry, away with flip flap, these fooleries, these gulleries: what honey? prince am I none, yet am I princely borne: what says my Lord Maior?
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)
Good morrow good Roger, I thanke you my good people all. Firke, hold vp thy hand, héer's a thrée-peny péece for thy tidings. Tis but thrée halfe pence, I thinke: yes, tis thrée pence, I smel the Rose. But mistresse, be rulde by me, and doe not speake so pulingly. Tis her worship speakes so, and not she, no faith mistresse, speake mee in the olde key, too it Firke, there good Firke, plie your businesse Hodge, Hodge, with a full mouth: Ile fill your bellies with good cheare til they crie twang. See myn lieuer broder, héer compt my meester. Welcome home maister shrieue, I pray God continue you in health and wealth. See here my Maggy, a chaine, a gold chaine for Simon Eyre, I shal make thee a Lady, heer's a French hood for thee, on with it, on with it, dresse thy browes with this flap of a shoulder of mutton, to make thée looke louely: where be my fine men? Roger, Ile make ouer my shop and tooles to thee: Firke, thou shalt be the foreman: Hans, thou shalt haue an hundred for twentie, bee as mad knaues as your maister Sim Eyre hath bin, & you shall liue to be Sheriues of London: how dost thou like me Margerie? Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne, Firke, Hodge, and Hans. I forsooth, what saies your worship mistris Sherife? Worship and honour you Babilonion knaues, for the Gentle Craft: but I forgot my selfe, I am bidden by my Lord Maior to ner to old Foord, hees gone before, I must after: come Hodge, on with your trinkets: nowe my true , my fine Firke, my dapper Hodge, my honest Hans, some deuice, some odde crochets, some morris, or such like, for the honour of the gentle shooemakers, meete me at old Foord, you know my minde: come Madge, away shutte vp the shop knaues, and make holiday. O rare, O braue, come Hodge, follow me Hans, Wéele be with them for a morris daunce. Trust mee you are as welcome to old Foord, as I my selfe. Truely I thanke your Lordship. Would our bad chéere were worth the thanks you giue. Good chéere my Lord Maior, fine chéere, a fine house, fine walles, all fine and neat. Now by my troth Ile tel thée maister Eyre, It does me good and al my brethren, That such a madcap fellow as thy selfe Is entred into our societie. I but my Lord, hee must learne nowe to putte on grauitie. Peace Maggy, a fig for grauitie, when I go to Guildhal in my scarlet gowne, Ile look as demurely as a saint, and speake as grauely as a Justice of peace, but now I am here at old Foord, at my good Lord Maiors house, let it go by, vanish Maggy, Ile be merrie, away with flip flap, these fooleries, these gulleries: what hunnie? prince am I none, yet am I princly borne: what sayes my Lord Maior?