Jack Drum's Entertainment (Katherine and Pasquil) · chunk 12 of 32
Marston, John · published 1601 · first performed or written 1600 (Annals) comedy · Children of Paul's (second) T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.71 · 490 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Now smug faced boy, now nibble on her lips, Now sip the dew of her delicious breath. Stink, rot, damn, bake in thy cluttered blood, Snakes, Toads, and Earwigs, make thy skull their nest, Engendering dew-worms, cling o'erthrwart thy breast. Hush, hush, leave praying for dead, 'tis no good Caluianisme, puritanism. Dissemble, here are company. Good morrow Sir, who lies there murdered? Oh Gentlemen, the kindest virtuous youth That e'er adorned London. Damned thieves To spoil such hopes: the last words that he spoke, Sticks still within the hollow of mine ear. Katherine quoth he, hold M. Mammon dear, I know not what he meant, but so he said. If that you pass to Highgate, tell the Knight, Pasquill is sunk into eternal night. Faith 'twas a good youth, come Brabant, come away. Dead Kate, dead Kate, dead is the boy, That kept rich Mammon from his joy. Oh the devil, the ghost of Pasquill, I am dead, if you have any courtesy in you, believe it. I believed you when you feigned, believe me now, for I am almost dead, numbed up with fear, give faith sweet gentle youth. Old wretch, amend thy thoughts, purge, purge, repent, I'll hide thy ulcer, be but penitent. Ha, I think 'twas but his ghost that swept along. Grand sot Mammon, Pho, fie, fie, fie, a foutra pour vos chunck, chunk. Iohn fo de King, teach you a ding, Iohn fo de King grand Sot, Sot, Sot. Death, plague, and hell, how is cursed Mammon vexed? scourged with the whip of sharp derision: I'll home, and starve, this cross, this peevish hap, Strikes dead my spirits like a thunderclap. God's precious, I forgot to bring my Page, To breath some Ditty in my Mistress ear. Wouldst have a Ballet to salute her with? No, but a Song. How wouldst thou court thy Mistress? Why with the world, the flesh & the devil. Right dog, well thou'lt swear, that I am blessed Beyond infinity of happiness, When thou beholdest admired Camelia. And God would bless me with 3. such mistresses, I would give two of them to the devil, that he would take the third. Oh when she clips, and clings about my neck, And sucks my soul forth with a melting kiss. Doth she use thee so kindly then, ha? O ay, and calls me dear, dear Brabant, and (o Iesu God) I cannot express her sweets of entertain, she'll so insinuate with chaste amorous speech, And play the wanton with such pretty grace, And vows love to me: Oh I'll make thee mad To see how gracious Brabant's in her eye. Here is her window, mark but when I call, How swift she comes, and with what kind salutes She welcomes me. What ho Camelia? Faith you'll be ta'en up, what in bed so late? And you take her up Brabant, she'll take you down. Heart they hear not: My Camelia wake?
nodes 535–587 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 12 of 32 in this edition
Length
490 words · 723 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.713 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Now smug fac'd boy, now nibble on her lips, Now sippe the deawe of her delitious breath. Stinke, rot, damne, bake in thy cluttered bloud, Snakes, Toads, and Earwigs, make thy skull their neast, Ingendring deaw-wormes, cling orethwart thy breast. Hush, hush, leaue praying for dead, tis no good Caluianisme, puritanisme. Dissemble, here are company. Good morrow Sir, who lies there murdred? Oh Gentlemen, the kindest vertuous youth That e're adorned London. Damned theeues To spoile such hopes: the last words that he spake, Sticks still within the hollow of mine eare. Katherine quoth he, hold M. Mamon deare, I know not what he meant, but so he said. If that you passe to Hygate, tell the Knight, Psquill is sunke into eternall night. Faith twas a good youth, come Brabant, come aaway. Dead Kate, dead Kate, dead is the boy, That kept rich Mamon from his ioy. Oh the diuell, the ghost of Pasquill, I am dead, if you haue any curtesie in you, beleeue it. I beleeu'd you when you faign'd, beleeue me now, for I am almost dead, numbd vp with feare, giue faith sweete gentle youth. Old wretch, amend thy thoughts, purge, purge, repent, Ile hide thy vlcer, be but penitent. Ha, I think twas but his ghost that swept along. Grand sot Mamō, Pho, phy, phy, phy, a foutra pour vos chūck, chunck. Iohn fo de King, teach you a ding, Iohn fo de King graund Sot, Sot, Sot. Death, plague, and hell, how is curst Mamō vext? Scourgde with the whip of sharpe derision: Ile home, and starue, this crosse, this peeuish hap, Strikes dead my spirits like a thunderclap. Gods pretious, I forgot to bring my Page, To breathe some Dittie in my Mistris eare. Wouldst haue a Ballet to salute her with? No, but a Song. How wouldst thou court thy Mistresse? Why with the world, the flesh & the diuel. Right dog, well thoult sweare, that I am blest Beyond infinitie of happinesse, When thou beholdest admired Camelia. And God wold blesse me with 3. such mistresses, I would giue two of them to the diuel, that hee would take the third. Oh when she clips, and clings about my necke, And suckes my soule forth with a melting kisse. Doth she vse thee so kindly then, ha? O I, and calls me deare, deare Brabant, and (ô Iesu God) I cannot expresse her sweets of entertaine, Sheele so insinuate with chaste amorous speech, And play the wanton with such pretie grace, And vowes loue to me: Oh I'le make thee madde To see how gratious Brabant's in her eye. Here is her window, marke but when I call, How swift she comes, and with what kind salutes She welcomes me. What ho Camelia? Faith youle be tane vp, what in bed so late? And you take her vp Brabant, sheele take you downe. Hart they heare not: My Camelia wake?