The Three Laws of Nature, Moses, and Christ, Corrupted by the Sodomites, Pharisees, and Papists · chunk 4 of 30
Bale, John · published 1562 · first performed or written 1538 [revised c.1547 and 1562] (Annals) moral T56 Magic, spells and conjuring typicality 0.69 · 513 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T56: magic, faustus, charms, charm, conjure, spirits, skill, ho, power, spells.
Yea, but now yeh am a she And a good mydwyfe perdie Young children can Icharme▪ With whisperings and whishings With crossings and with kissings With blazings and with blessings That spirits do them no harm. Then art thou like to Clysthenes. To Clodius and Euclides, Sardinapalus and Hercules Which themselves oft transformed Into a woman's likeness With agility and quickness But they had venus sickness As writers have declared. Let her tell forth her matter. With holy oil and water I can so cloyne and clatter That I can at the latter Many sutelties contrive I can work wiles in battle If I do ones but spittle I can make corn and cattle That they shall never thrive. When ale is in the fat If the Oruar please me not The cast shall fall down flat And never have any strength No man shall ton nor bake Nor meat in inseason make If I against him take But lose his labour at length. Their wells I can up dry Cause trees and herbs to die. And slay all pullerye Where as men doth me move I can make stoles to dance, And earthen pots to prance That none shall them enhance And do but cast my glove. I have charms for the plough And also for the cough She shall give milk enough So long as I am pleased Apace the myl● shall go. So shall the credle do And the mustered querne also No man therewith diseased. Than art thou for me fit. The woman hath a wit And by her gear can sit. Though she be somewhat old? It is mine own sweet bully My muskyne and my mullye, My gelover and my cullye Yea mine own sweet heart of Gold. I say yet not to bold. Peace fondelinge, tush a button What wilt thou fall to mutton? And play the hungry glutton Afore this company? Rank love is full of heat Where hungry dogs lack meat They will dirty puddings eat For want of beef and conye. Heyghe minion for money As good is draff as honey. When the day is hot and sonnye, By the blessed road of kent. say forth your mind good mother For this man is none other But our own loving brother And is very well content. I never miss but palter Our blessed ladies psaulter Before saint Savours altar With my beads once a day And this is my comoncast To here Mass first or last And the holy frydaye fast In good time mought I it say. With blessings of Saint Germyne I will me so determine That neither for nor vermin Shall do my chickens harm For your gese seek saint Legearde And for your ducks saint Leonarde For horse take Moses' yard There is no better charm. Take me a napkin folte With the bias of a bolt For the healing of a folte No better thing can be For lamps and for botts Take me saint Wylfrides' knots And holy saint Thomas lots On my life I warrande ye.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 266–362 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 4 of 30 in this edition
Length
513 words · 647 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T56 — Magic, spells and conjuringcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.691 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T45 · seed 44: T51 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Yea, but nowe yeh am a she And a good mydwyf perde Yonge chyldren can Icharme▪ With whysperynges and whysshynges With crossynges and with kyssynges With blasynges and with blessynges That sprytes do them no harme. Then art thou lyke to Clysthenes. To Clodius and Euclides, Sardinapalus and Hercules Whiche them selues ofte transfourmed Into a womans lykenes With agylyte and quyckenes But they had venus syckenes As wryters haue declared. Let her tell forth her matter. With holy oyle and water I can so cloyne and clatter That I can at the latter Many sutelties contryue I can worke wyles in battell If I do ones but spattle I can make corne and cattle That they shall neuer thryue. Whan ale is in the fat If the Oruar please me nat The cast shall fall downe flat And neuer haue any strength No man shall tonne nor bake Nor meate in inseason make If I agaynst hym take But lose his labour at length. Theyr welles I can vp drye Case trees and herbes to dye. And slee all pullerye Where as men doth me moue I can make stoles to daunce, And earthen pottes to praunce That none shall them enhaunce And do but cast my gloue. I haue charmes for the plowghe And also for the cowghe She shall gyue mylke nowghe So longe as I am pleased Apace the myl shall go. So shall the credle do And the musterde querne also No man therwith dyseased. Than art thou for me fytte. The woman hath a wytte And by her gere can sytte. Thoughe she be somwhat olde? It is myne owne swete bullye My muskyne and my mullye, My gelouer and my cullye Yea myne owne swete hart of Golde. I saye yet not to bolde. Peace fondelinge, tusshe a button What wylte thou fall to mutton? And playe the hungrye glutton Afore this company? Ranke loue is full of heate Where hungrye dogges lacke meate They wyll durty pudynges eate For want of befe and conye. Heyghe mynyon for monye As good is draffe as honye. Whan the daye is whote and sonnye, By the blessed rode of kent. Saye forth your mynde good mother For this man is none other But our owne louynge brother And is very well content. I neuer mysse but paulter Our blessed ladyes psaulter Before saynt Sauers aulter With my bedes ones a daye And this is my comoncast To here Masse fyrste or last And the holy frydaye fast In good tyme mought I it faye. With blessynges of Saynt Germyne I wyll me so determyne That neyther for nor vermyne Shall do my chyckens harme For your gese seke saynt Legearde And for your duckes saynt Leonarde For horse take Moyses yearde There is no better charme. Take me a napkyn folte With the byas of a bolte For the healynge of a olte No better thynge can be For lampes and for bottes Take me saynt Wylfrides knottes And holy saynt Thomas lottes On my lyfe I warrande ye.