Blurt, Master Constable, or The Spaniard's Night Walk · chunk 8 of 34
Anonymous · published 1602 · first performed or written 1601 [1601-1602] (Annals) romance · Children of Paul's (second) unassigned nearest T59 Spanish courts: war, honour and courtshi · 497 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T59: andrea, spain, portugal, tribute, horatio, king, bellimperia, prince, lord, lorenzo.
He wants wine Boy to swallow me down, for he wants money to swallow down wine: but farewell, I must dog my master. As long as thou dog'st a Spaniard, thou'lt near be fatter; but stay, our haste is as great as thine, yet to endear ourselves into thy lean acquaintance cry Rivo Hogh, laugh and be fat, and for joy that we are met we'll meet and be merry, sing: I'll make a shift to squeak. And I. And I, for my profession is to shift as well as you, hem: What meat eats the Spaniard? Dried Pilchers and poor Iohn: Alas thou art almost marred. My cheeks are fallen and gone. Wouldst thou not leap at a piece of meat? O how my teeth do water, I could eat For the heavens; my flesh is almost gone With eating of Pilchard and poor Iohn. Am I so happy then? Nay sweet Monsieur. O, boy thou hast new winged my captived soul, Now to my Fortune all the Fates may yield, For I have won where first I lost the field. Why sir, did my Mistress prick you with the Spanish needle of her love, before I summoned you (from her) to this parley? Doubts thou that boy. Of mine honesty I doubt extremely, for I cannot see the little God's tokens upon you: there is as much difference between you and a Lover, as between a Cuckold and a Unicorn. Why boy? For you do not wear a pair of ruffled, frowning, ungartered Stockings, like a Gallant that hides his small timbered legs, with a quail-pipe boot: your hose stands upon too many points, and are not troubled with that falling sickness, which follows pale, meager, miserable, melancholy Lovers: your hands are not groping continually. Where my little observer? In your greasy pocket sir, like one that wants a Cloak for the rain, and yet is still weather-beaten: your hat nor head are not of the true heigh-ho-block, for it should be broad brimmed, limber, like the skin of a white pudding when the meat is out: the Facing fatty: the Felt dusty, and not entered into any band, but your hat is of the nature of a loose, light, heavy-swelling wench, too strait laced: I tell you Monsieur, a Lover should be all loose from the sole of the foot rising upward; and from the Bases, or confines of the Slop, falling downwards: if you were in my Mistress's Chamber, you should find othergates privy signs of love hanging out there. Have your little eyes watched so narrowly? Oh sir, a Page must have a cat's eye, a spaniel's leg, a whores tongue (a little tasting of the Cog) a catchpoles hand, what he gripes is his own; and a little little bawdy. Fair Violetta I will wear thy love, Like this French order, near unto my heart, Via for fate, Fortune, lo this is all, At griefs rebound I'll mount, although I fall.
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)
He wants wine Boy to swallow me down, for he wants money to swallow downe wine: but farewell, I must dog my master. As long as thou dog'st a Spaniard, thou'lt nere be fatter; but stay, our hast is as great as thine, yet to endeere our selues into thy leane acquaintance cry Riuo Hogh, laugh and be fat, and for ioy that we are met wee'll meete and be merry, sing: Ile make a shift to squeake. And I. And I, for my profession is to shift as well as you, hem: What meate eates the Spaniard? Dry'd Pilchers and poore Iohn: Alas thou art almost mard. My cheekes are falne and gone. Wouldst thou not leape at a peece of meate? O how my teeth doe water, I could eate For the heauens; my flesh is almost gone With eating of Pilcher and poore Iohn. Am I so happy then? Nay sweet Monsieur. O, boy thou hast new wing'd my captiu'd soule, Now to my Fortune all the Fates may yeild, For I haue won where first I lost the field. Why sir, did my Mistris pricke you with the Spanish needle of her loue, before I summond you (from her) to this parly? Doubts thou that boy▪ Of mine honestie I doubt extreamely, for I cannot see the little Gods tokens vpon you: there is as much difference betweene you and a Louer, as betweene a Cuckolde and a Vnicorne. Why boy? For you doe not weare a paire of ruffled, frowning, vngartred Stockinges, like a Gallant that hides his small timbred legs, with a quaile-pipe boote: your hose stands vpon too many points, and are not troubled with that falling sicknes, which followes pale, meager, miserable, melancholy Louers: your hands are not groping continuallie. Where my little obseruer? In your greasie pocket sir, like one that wants a Cloake for the raine, and yet is still weather-beaten: your hat nor head are not of the true hey-ho-blocke, for it should be broad brim'd, lymber, like the skinne of a white pudding when the meate is out: the Facing fattye: the Felt dustye, and not entred into any band, but your hat is of the nature of a loose, light, heauie-swelling wench, too straite laced: I tell you Monsieur, a Louer should be all loose from the sole of the foote rizing vpward; and from the Bases, or confines of the Slop, falling downewards: if you were in my Mistresses Chamber, you should finde other-gates priuy signes of loue hanging out there. Haue your little eyes watcht so narrowlie? Oh sir, a Page must haue a Cats eye, a Spaniels legge, a whoores tongue (a little tasting of the Cog) a Catch-poles hand, what he gripes is his owne; and a little little baudy. Faire Violetta I will weare thy loue, Like this French order, neere vnto my heart, Via for fate, Fortune, loe this is all, At griefes rebound Ile mount, although I fall.