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 T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 495 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
Awl these fittels is made for Cousin marquess: Sir Owen is gone to fetch him, but Sir owen has anger her Lady. More shame for him, he's not a Knight, but a knitter of caps for it. Sir Owen has anger her Lady, and therefore her Lady is anger Sir Owen Make him a cuckold madam, and upon that I drink to you: helter-skelter here rogues, top and top gallant, pell-mell, hufty-tufty, hem, God save the Duke, and a fig for the hangman. Rees fetch wine and pears enough, and fall to pegger, and eat awl her sheer, and tomineere, see you now, pray do. Nay I pray peggers be quiet, tag your meats, you have trinkes enough I see, and get you home now good peggers. Come your rogues, let's go tag and rag, cut and long tail, I am victualled for a month, God bye Madame, pray God Sir owen and you may fall out every day: Is there any harm in this now? heigh tri-lill, give the dog a loaf, fill the other pot you whore & God save the Duke. I thang you good peggers, ha ha, this is fine sport, by God is have peggers eat her fittales all day long. Where is the sheer Rees? cod's plude where? I beseech you sir be patient, I tell you the beggars have it. Wad a pogs is do with peggers? wad is peggers do at Knight's house? How my Lady Gwenthian? ha ha ha. You see Sir Owen we are soon invited, Where is your wife the Lady Gwenthian? Is come pie and pie, Cod udge me Gwenthian pray put on your bravery and fine knags, and shame not Sir Owen, yes truly Gwenthian is come out pie and pie, Man grass worth whee cozen marquess, Man grass worth whee cozen Iolia is welcome awl. Ha ha welcome, come come madam appear in your likeness, or rather in the likeness of another, my Lord you're best send back to your own Cooks, if you mean to set your teeth a work today. Why Farneze what's the matter? Nay there's no matter in it, the fire's quenched, the victuals given to beggars, Sir Owen's kitchen looks like the first Chaos, or like a broker's stall, full of odd ends: or like the end of some terrible battle, for upon every dresser lies legs and feathers, and heads of poor Capons and wild foul that have been drawn and quartered, and now mourn that their carcases are carried away: his are not rheumatic, for there's no spitting here lie fish in a pitiful pickle, there stands the coffins of pies, wherein the dead bodies of birds should have been buried, but their ghosts have forsaken their graves & walked abroad: the best sport is to see the scullions, some laughing, some crying, & whilst they wipe their eyes they black their faces, the Cooks curse her Lady, and some pray for our Lord.
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)
Awl these fittels is made for Cozen Marquesse: Sir Owen is gone to fedge him, but Sir owen has anger her Ladie. More shame for him, hee's not a Knight, but a knitter of caps for it. Sir Owen has anger her Lady, and therfore her Lady is anger Sir Owen Make him a cuckolde Madame, and vpon that I drinke to you: helter skelter here roagues, top and top gallant, pell mell, huftie tuftie, hem, God saue the Duke, and a fig for the hangman. Rees fedge wine and peares enough, and fall to pegger, and eate awl her shéere, and tomineere, see you now, pray doe. Nay I pray peggers be quiet, tag your meates, you haue trinkes enough I see, and get you home nowe good peggers. Come your roagues, lets goe tag and rag, cut and long taile, I am victualed for a month, God bo'y Madame, pray God Sir owen and you may fall out euery day: Is there any harme in this now? hey tri-lill, giue the dog a loafe, fill the tother pot you whoore & God saue the Duke. I thang you good peggers, ha ha, this is fine spord, by God is haue peggers eate her fittales all day long. Where is the sheere Rees? Cods plude where? I beseech you sir be patient, I tell you the beggers haue it. Wad a pogs is doe with peggers? wad is peggers How my Lady Gwenthian? ha ha ha. You see Sir Owen we are soone inuited, Where is your wife the Lady Gwenthian? Is come pie and pie, Cod vdge me Gwenthian pray put on your prauerie and fine knags, and shame not Sir Owen, yes truely Gwenthian is come out pie and pie, Man gras worthe whee cozen Marguesse, Man gras worthe whee cozen Iolia is welcome awl. Ha ha welcome, come come Madame appeare in your likenes, or rather in the likenes of another, my Lord y'are best send backe to your owne Cookes, if you meane to set your teeth a worke to day. Why Farneze what's the matter? Nay there's no matter in it, the fire's quencht, the victuals giuen to beggers, Sir Owens kitchin lookes like the first Chaos, or like a Brokers stall, full of odde endes: or like the end of some terrible battle, for vpon euery dresser lyes legges and feathers, and heads of poore Capons and wilde foule that haue bin drawne and quartred, and now mourne that their carkasses are carried away: his are not rewmaticke, for there's no spitting heere lye fish in a pittifull pickle, there standes the coffins of pyes, wherein the dead bodies of birdes should haue been buried, but their ghostes haue forsaken their graues & walkt abroad: the best sport is to see the scullians, some laughing, some crying, & whilst they wipe their eies they blacke their faces, the Cookes curse her Lady, and some pray for our Lord.