The Shoemaker's Holiday, or The Gentle Craft · chunk 34 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 T44 Drinking: wine, ale and taverns · 493 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T44: drink, wine, numps, ale, butler, pot, sing, moy, drunk, win.
Nay more my hearts, every Shrove-Tuesday is our year of Jubilee: and when the pancake bell rings, we are as free as my lord Maior, we may shut up our shops, and make holiday: I'll have it called, Saint Hugh's Holiday. Agreed, agreed, Saint Hugh's Holiday. And this shall continue for ever. Oh brave! come come my hearts, away, away. O eternal credit to us of the gentle Craft, march fair my hearts, oh rare. Is our lord Maior of London such a gallant? One of the merriest madcaps in your land, Your Grace will think, when you behold the man, he's rather a wild ruffian than a Maior: Yet thus much I'll ensure your majesty, In all his actions that concern his state, He is as serious, provident, and wise, As full of gravity amongst the grave, As any maior hath been these many years. I am with child till I behold this half cap, But all my doubt is, when we come in presence, His madness will be dashed clean out of countenance. It may be so, my Liege. Which to prevent, Let some one give him notice, 'tis our pleasure, That he put on his wonted merriment: Set forward. On afore. Come my fine Hodge, my jolly gentlemen shoemakers, soft, where be these cannibals, these varlets my officers, let them all walk and wait upon my brethren, for my meaning is, that none but shoemakers, none but the livery of my Company shall in their satin hoods wait upon the trencher of my sovereign. O my Lord, it will be rare. No more Firk, come lively, let your fellow prentices want no cheer, let wine be plentiful as beer, and beer as water, hang these penny pinching fathers, that cram wealth in innocent lamb skins, rip knaves, avaunt, look to my guests My Lord, we are at our wits end for room, those hundred tables will not feast the fourth part of them. Then cover me those hundred tables again, and again, till all my jolly prentices be feasted: avoid Hodge, run Rafe, frisk about my numble Firke, carouse me fathom healths to the honour of the shoemakers: do they drink lively Hodge? do they tickle it Firk? Tickle it? some of them have taken their liquor standing so long, that they can stand no longer: but for meat, they would eat it and they had it. Want they meat? where's this swagbelly, this greasy kitchenstuff cook, call the varlet to me: want meat! Firk, Hodge, lame Rafe, run my tall men, beleaguer the shambles, beggar all Eastcheap, serve me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheep whine upon the tables like pigs for want of good fellows to eat them. Want meat! vanish Firk, avaunt Hodge. Your lordship mistakes my man Firk, he means their bellies want meat, not the boards, for they have drunk so much they can eat nothing. Where is my Lord. How now lady Madgy.
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)
Nay more my hearts, euery Shrouetuesday is our yéere of Jubile: and when the pancake bel rings, we are as free as my lord Maior, we may shut vp our shops, and make holiday: Ile haue it calld, Saint Hughes Holiday. Agreed, agreed, Saint Hughes Holiday. And this shal continue for euer. Oh braue! come come my hearts, away, away. O eternall credite to vs of the gentle Craft, march faire my hearts, oh rare. Is our lord Maior of London such a gallant? One of the merriest madcaps in your land, Your Grace wil thinke, when you behold the man, Hées rather a wilde ruffin than a Maior: Yet thus much Ile ensure your maiestie, In al his actions that concerne his state, He is as serious, prouident, and wise, As full of grauitie amongst the graue, As any maior hath beene these many yeares. I am with child til I behold this halfe cap, But all my doubt is, when we come in presence, His madnesse will be dasht cleane out of countenance. It may be so, my Liege. Which to preuent, Let some one giue him notice, tis our pleasure, That he put on his woonted merriment: Set forward. On afore. Come my fine Hodge, my iolly gentlemen shooemakers, soft, where be these Caniballes, these varlets my officers, let them al walke and waite vpon my brethren, for my meaning is, that none but shoomakers, none but the liuery of my Company shall in their sattin hoodes waite vppon the trencher of my soueraigne. O my Lord, it will be rare. No more Firke, come liuely, let your fellowe prentises want no cheere, let wine be plentiful as béere, and beere as water, hang these penny pinching fathers, that cramme wealth in innocent lamb skinnes, rip knaues, anaunt, looke to my guests My Lord, we are at our wits end for roome, those hundred tables wil not feast the fourth part of them. Then couer me those hundred tables againe, and againe, til all my iolly prentises be feasted: auoyde Hodge, runne Rafe, friske about my numble Firke, carowse me fadome healths to the honor of the shoomakers: do they drink liuely Hodge? do they tickle it Firke? Tickle it? some of them haue taken their licour standing so long, that they can stand no longer: but for meate, they would eate it and they had it. Want they meate? wheres this swag-belly, this greasie kitchinstuffe cooke, call the varlet to me: want meat! Firke, Hodge, lame Rafe, runne my tall men, beleager the shambles, beggar al East-Cheape, serue me whole oxen in chargers, and let sheepe whine vpon the tables like pigges for want of good felowes to eate them. Want meate! vanish Firke, auaunt Hodge. Your lordship mistakes my man Firke, he means their bellies want meate, not the boords, for they haue drunk so much they can eate nothing. Where is my Lord. How now lady Madgy.