The Shoemaker's Holiday, or The Gentle Craft · chunk 36 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 T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea · 488 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
But all this while I do not know your age. My liege, I am six and fifty year old, yet I can cry humpe, with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh: mark this old wench, my king, I danced the shaking of the sheets with her six and thirty years ago, and yet I hope to get two or three young Lord Majors ere I die: I am lusty still, Sim Eyre still: care, and cold lodging brings white hairs. My sweet Majesty, let care vanish, cast it upon thy Nobles, it will make thee look always young like Apollo, and cry humpe: Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne. Ha ha: say Cornwall, didst thou ever see his like? Not I, my Lord. Lincoln, what news with you? My gracious Lord, have care unto yourself, For there are traitors here. traitors, where? who? Traitors in my house? God forbid, where be my officers? I'll spend my soul ere my king feel harm. Where is the traitor? Lincoln. Here he stands. Cornwall, lay hold on Lacie: Lincoln, speak: What canst thou lay unto thy nephews charge? This my dear liege: your grace to do me honour, Heaped on the head of this degenerous boy, Desertless favours, you made choice of him, To be commander over powers in France, But he. Good Lincoln pry thee pause a while, Even in thine eyes I read what thou wouldst speak, I know how Lacie did neglect our love, Ran himself deeply (in the highest degree) Into vile treason. Is he not a traitor? Lincoln, he was: now have we pardoned him, 'twas not a base want of true valours fire, That held him out of France, but loves desire. I will not bear his shame upon my back. Nor shalt thou Lincoln, I forgive you both. Then (good my liege) forbid the boy to wed One, whose mean birth will much disgrace his bed. Are they not married? No my Liege. We are. Shall I divorce them then? O be it far, That any hand on earth should dare untie, The sacred knot knit by God's majesty, I would not for my crown disjoin their hands, That are conjoined in holy nuptial bands, How sayst thou Lacy? wouldst thou lose thy Rose? Not for all Indians wealth, my sovereign. But Rose I am sure her Lacie would forego. If Rose were asked that question, she'd say, no. You hear them Lincoln. Yea my liege, I do. Yet canst thou find i'th' heart to part these two? Who seeks, besides you, to divorce these lovers? I do (my gracious Lord) I am her father. Sir Roger Oteley, our last Maior I think, The same my liege. Would you offend loves laws? Well, you shall have your wills, you sue to me, To prohibit the match: Soft, let me see, You both are married, Lacie, art thou not?
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)
But all this while I do not know your age. My liege, I am sixe and fiftie yeare olde, yet I can crie humpe, with a sound heart for the honour of Saint Hugh: marke this olde wench, my king, I dauncde the shaking of the sheetes with her sixe and thirtie yeares agoe, and yet I hope to get two or three yong Lorde Maiors ere I die: I am lustie still, Sim Eyre still: care, and colde lodging brings white haires. My swéete Maiestie, let care vanish, cast it vppon thy Nobles, it will make thée looke alwayes young like Apollo, and crye humpe: Prince am I none, yet am I princely borne. Ha ha: saye Cornewall, didst thou euer sée his like? Not I, my Lorde. Lincolne, what newes with you? My gracious Lord, haue care vnto your selfe, For there are traytors here. Traytors, where? who? Traitors in my house? God forbid, where be my officers? Ile spend my soule ere my king féele harme. Where is the traytor? Lincolne. Here he stands. Cornewall, lay hold on Lacie: Lincolne, speake: What canst thou lay vnto thy Nephewes charge? This my deere liege: your grace to doe me honour, Heapt on the head of this degenerous boy, Desertlesse fauours, you made choise of him, To be commander ouer powers in France, But he. Good Lincolne pry thée pawse a while, Euen in thine eies I reade what thou wouldst speake, I know how Lacie did neglect our loue, Ranne himselfe déepely (in the highest degrée) Into vile treason. Is he not a traytor? Lincolne, he was: now haue we pardned him, Twas not a base want of true valors fire, That held him out of France, but loues desire. I wil not beare his shame vpon my backe. Nor shalt thou Lincolne, I forgive you both. Then (good my liege) forbid the boy to wed One, whose meane birth will much disgrace his bed. Are they not married? No my Liege. We are. Shall I divorce them then? O be it farre, That any hand on earth should dare vntie, The sacred knot knit by Gods maiestie, I would not for my crowne disioyne their hands, That are conioynd in holy nuptiall bands, How saist thou Lacy? wouldst thou loose thy Rose? Not for all Indians wealth, my soueraigne. But Rose I am sure her Lacie would forgoe. If Rose were askt that question, sheed say, no. You heare them Lincolne. Yea my liege, I do. Yet canst thou find ith heart to part these two? Who séeks, besides you, to diuorce these louers? I do (my gracious Lord) I am her father. Sir Roger Oteley, our last Maior I thinke, The same my liege. Would you offend Loues lawes? Wel, you shal haue your wills, you sue to me, To prohibite the match: Soft, let me sée, You both are married, Lacie, art thou not?