Dekker, Thomas / Chettle, Henry / Haughton, William · published 1603 · first performed or written 1600 [Oct 16-Dec 29, payment] (Annals) comedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men unassigned nearest T45 Widows, wooing and remarriage · 484 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T45: widow, widows, hoord, master, gentlemen, wife, randalls, wit, mistress, married.
But will her say no more hang herself? Oh no more, as God udge me no more, pray leave, owe, owe, owe. Tannekin the Fide hath brought your Rebato, it comes to three pound. What a pestilence is this for Gwenthyan? For her neg, is called repatoes, Gwenthian wear it here, is't not praue? Brave? yes is prave, 'tis repatoes I warrant her: I patoes money out a cry, yes 'tis praue, Rees the preece? Rees the preece? The Froe sir says five pound. Ha ha ha, pound, Gwenthyan pray do not pie it. By God udge me her shall pie it. God udge me her shall not. Shall not? Rees tag her away, I say her shall and wear it pie and pie. Then mag a pobbie fool of Sir Owen indeed: God's plude shall? I say shall not: five pound for puble, for patoes: here there, so tag it now, wear it now powte her neg, shall pridle sir Owen ha? Oh rare sir Owen, ah precious knight, oh rare Sir Owen. Out you rascals, you prade and prade, i'll prade your nieces. Oh rare madam, oh precious madam, O God, O God, O God, O. Is domineer now, you tear her ruffs and repatoes, you preak her ponds? I'll tear as good ponds, and better too, and better too. Owe Gwenthyan, cod's plude is five thousand ducats, hold hold hold, a pogs on her pride, what has her done? Go loog, is now paid for her repatoes, i'll have her wills & desires, i'll teadge her pridle her Lady: Catho crogge, Ne vetho, en Thlonigh gna wathee Gnathlatee. A breath vawer or no Tee: pridle her, sir owen is pridled I warrant: widows (were better God's plude marry whore) were better be hanged and quarter, then marry widows as God udge me: Sir owen fall on her knees, & pray God to tag her to her mercy, or else put better mind in her Lady: awl prittish Shentlemans tag heed how her marry fixen widow. Sir owen ap Meredith can rightly tell, A shrews sharp tongue is terrible as hell. Did she not see thee when thou took'st it up? No, she was fast asleep. Give me this blessed burden, pretty fool With what an amiable look it sleeps, And in that slumber how it sweetly smiles, And in that smile how my heart leaps for joy: Furio I'll turn this circle to a cradle, To rock my dear babe: A great Roman Lord, Taught his young Son to ride a Hobby-horse. Then why should I think scorn to dandle mine: Furio behold it well, to whom is't like? You, there's your nose and black eyebrows. Thou dost but flatter me, here comes Mario, I know Mario will not flatter me, Mario, thy opinion, view this child, Doth not his lips, his nose, his forehead, And every other part resemble mine?
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 will her say no more hang her selfe? Oh no more, as God vdge mee no more, pray leaue, owe, owe, owe. Tannekin the Fide hath brought your Rebato, it comes to three pound. What a pestilence is this for Gwenthyan? For her neg, is cald repatoes, Gwenthian weare it heere, ist not praue? Praue? yes is praue, tis repatoes I warrant her: I patoes money out a crie, yes tis praue, Rees the preece? Rees the preece? The Froe sir saies fiue pound. Ha ha ha, pound, Gwenthyan pray doe not pye it. By God vdge me her shall pye it. God vdge me her shall not. Shall not? Rees tag her away, I say her shall and weare it pye and pye. Then mag a pobbie foole of Sir Owen indeed: Gods plude shall? I say shal not: fiue pound for puble, for patoes: here there, so tag it now, weare it now powte her neg, shall pridle sir Owen ha? Oh rare sir Owen, ah pretious Kninght, oh rare Sir Owen. Out you raskals, you prade and prade, ile prade your neaces. Oh rare Madame, oh pretious Madame, O God, O God, O God, O. Is domineere now, you teare her ruffes and repatoes, you preake her ponds? Ile teare as good pondes, and petter too, and petter too. Owe Gwenthyan, Cods plude is fiue thousand duckets, hold hold hold, a pogs on her pride, what has her done? Goe loog, is now paide for her repatoes, ile haue her willes & desires, ile teadge her pridle her Lady: Catho crogge, Ne vetho, en Thlonigh gna wathee Gnathlatee. A breath vawer or no Tee: pridle her, sir owen is pridled I warrant: widdows (were petter Gods plude marry whoore) were petter be hang'd and quarter, then marry widowes as God vdge me: Sir owen fall on her knees, & pray God to tag her to her mercy, or else put petter minde in her Lady: awl prittish Shentlemans tag heede how her marry fixen widowe. Sir owen ap Meredith can rightly tell, A shrewes sharpe tongue is terrible as hell. Did she not see thee when thou took'st it vp? No, she was fast a sleepe. Giue me this blessed burthen, pretty foole With what an amiable looke it sleepes, And in that slumber how it sweetly smiles, And in that smile how my heart leapes for ioy: Furio Ile turne this circle to a cradle, To rocke my deare babe: A great Romaine Lord, Taught his young Sonne to ride a Hodby-horse. Then why should I thinke scorne to dandle mine: Furio beholde it well, to whom ist like? You, there's your nose and blacke eye-browes. Thou dost but flatter me, heere comes Mario, I know Mario will not flatter me, Mario, thy opinion, view this childe, Doth not his lips, his nose, his fore-head, And euery other part resemble mine?