Jack Drum's Entertainment (Katherine and Pasquil) · chunk 6 of 32
Marston, John · published 1601 · first performed or written 1600 (Annals) comedy · Children of Paul's (second) T35 Fools, wit and railing typicality 0.81 · 521 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
Ho at the glittering Court my Pytheas. Plague on ye Pytheas, what have you done there? Why lane in my Lady's lap, eat, drink, & sleep. So hath thy Lady's Dog done, what art in love With you Highgate Mammer still? Still, I still, and still, I in eternity. It shall be Chronicled next after the death of Banks his Horse, I wonder why thou lov'st her? Love hath no reason. Then is love a beast. O my Camelia is love itself. The devil she is: Heart her lips look like a dried Neats-tongue: her face as richly yellow, as the skin of a cold Custard, and her mind as settled as the feet of bald pated time. Plague on your hateful humour, out upon't, Why should your stomach be so queasy now, As to bespawl the pleasures of the world? Why should you run an Idle counter-course Thwart to the path of fashion? Come your reason? O you are buried in Philosophy, And there entombed in supernaturals, You are dead to native pleasures life. Let me buss thy cheek sweet Pug, Now I am perfect hate, I loved but three things in the world, Philosophy, Thrift, and myself. Thou hast made me hate Philosophy. A usurers greasy Codpiece made me loath Thrift: but if all the brewer's jades in the town can drug me from love of myself, they shall do more than e'er the seven wise men of Greece could: Come, come, now I'll be as sociable as Timon of Athens. Along with me then, you droning sackbut, I'll bring thee to a Crew. Of Fools wilt not? Faith if you have any weight of judgement, you may easily sound what depth of wits they draw, there's first my elder brother. Oh the Prince of Fools, unequalled Idiot, He that makes costly suppers to try wits: And will not stick to spend some 20. pound To grope a gull: that same perpetual grin That leads his Corky jests to make them sink Into the ears of his deriders with his own applause. Indeed his jests are like Indian beef, they will not last, and yet he powders them soundly with his own laughter. Then there's the Gothish Frenchman, monsieur Iohn fo de King, know'st thou him? Oh, I to a hair, for I knew him when he had never a hair on his head. He is a faithful pure Rogue. ay, ay, as pure as the gold that hath been seven times tried in the fire. Then there's Iohn Ellis, and profound tongued Master Puff, he that hath a perpetuity of complement, he whose phrases are as neatly decked as my Lord majors Hensmen, he whose throat squeaks like a treble Organ, and speaks as small and shrill, as the Irish-men cry Pip, fine Pip. And when his period comes not roundly off, takes toll of the tenth hair of his Bourbon lock: as thus. Sweet Sir, repute me as a (Puff) selected spirit borne to be the admirer, of your never enough admired (Puff). Oh we shall be overwhelmed with an inundation of laughter. Come, where are they?
nodes 250–287 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 6 of 32 in this edition
Length
521 words · 708 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T35 — Fools, wit and railingcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.808 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T58 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Ho at the glittering Court my Pytheas. Plague on ye Pytheas, what haue you done there? Why lane in my Ladies lap, eate, drink, & sleep. So hath thy Ladies Dog done, what art in loue With you Hygate Mammer still? Still, I still, and still, I in eternitie. It shall bee Cronicled next after the death of Bankes his Horse, I wonder why thou lou'st her? Loue hath no reason. Then is loue a beast. O my Camelia is loue it selfe. The diuel she is: Harther lips looke like a dride Neats-tongue: her face as richly yeallow, as the skin of a cold Custard, and her mind as setled as the feet of bald pated time. Plague on your hatefull humor, out vppont, Why should your stomacke be so queasie now, As to bespawle the pleasures of the world? Why should you run an Idle counter-course Thwart to the path of fashion? Come your reason? O you are buried in Philosophie, And there intombd in supernaturalls, You are dead to natiue pleasures life. Let me busse thy cheeke sweete Pugge, Now I am perfect hate, I lou'd but three things in the world, Philosophy, Thrift, and my self. Thou hast made me hate Philosophy. A Vsurers greasie Codpeece made me loath Thrift: but if all the Brewers Iades in the town can drug me from loue of my selfe, they shall doo more then e're the seuen wise men of Greece could: Come, come, now I'le be as sociable as Timon of Athens. Along with me then, you droming Sagbut, I'le bring thee to a Crewe. Of Fooles wilt not? Faith if you haue any waight of iudgement, you may easily sound what depth of witts they drawe, theres first my elder brother. Oh the Prince of Fooles, vnequald Ideot, He that makes costly suppers to trie wits: And will not stick to spend some 20. pound To grope a gull: that same perpetuall grin That leades his Corkie Iests to make them sinke Into the eares of his Deryders with his owne applause. Indeed his Iests are like Indian beefe, they will not last, and yet he powders them soundly with his own laughter. Then theres the Gotish French-man, Mounsieur Iohn fo de King, knowste thou him? Oh, I to a haire, for I knew him when he had neuer a haire on his head. He is a faithfull pure Rogue. I, I, as pure as the gold that hath bene seuen times tryed in the fire. Then theres Iohn Ellis, and profound toungd Maister Puffe, he that hath a perpetuitie of complement, he whose phrases are as neatly deckt as my Lord Maiors Hensmen, he whose throat squeakes like a treble Organ, and speakes as small and shrill, as the Irish-men crie Pip, fine Pip. And when his period comes not roundly off, takes tole of the tenth haire of his Bourbon locke: as thus. Sweete Sir, repute me as a (Puffe) selected spirit borne to be the admirer, of your neuer inough admired (Puffe). Oh we shall be ouerwhelmd with an invndation of laughter. Come, where are they?