1 The Honest Whore (1 The Converted Courtesan) (The Patient Man and the Honest Whore) · chunk 19 of 48
Dekker, Thomas / Middleton, Thomas · published 1604 · first performed or written 1604 (Annals) comedy · Prince Henry's Men unassigned nearest T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds · 528 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
methinks a toad is happier than a whore, That with one poison swells, with thousands more The other stocks her veins: harlot: fie! fie, You are the miserablest Creatures breathing, The very slaves of nature: mark me else, You put on rich attires, others eyes wear them, You eat, but to supply your blood with sin, And this strange curse e'en haunts you to your graves. From fools you get, and spend it upon slaves: Like Bears and Apes, you're baited and show tricks For money; but your Bawd the sweetness licks. Indeed you are their journey-women, and do All base and damned works they list set you to: So that you ne'er are rich; for do but show me, In present memory, or in ages past, The fairest and most famous Courtesan, Whose flesh was dearest; that raised the price of sin, And held it up; to whose intemperate bosom, Princes, Earls, Lords, the worst has been a knight, The mean'st a Gentleman, have offered up Whole Hecatombs of sighs, & rained in showers Handfuls of gold, yet for all this, at last Diseases sucked her marrow, then grew so poor, That she has begged, e'en at a beggars door. And (wherein heaven has a singer) when this Idol, From coast to coast, has leapt on foreign shores, And had more worship, than th'outlandish whores: When several Nations have gone over her, When for each several City she has seen, Her Maidenhead has been new, & been sold dear: Did live well there, & might have dyde unknown, And undefamed; back comes she to her own, And there both miserably lives and dies, Scorned even of those, that once adored her eyes, As if her fatal-circled life, thus ran, Her pride should end there, where it first began. What do you weep to hear your Story read? Nay, if you spoil your cheeks, I'll read no more. O yes, I pray proceed: Indeed 'twill do me good to weep indeed. To give those tears a relish, this I add, You're like the Jews, scattered, in no place certain, Your days are tedious, your hours burdensome: And were't not for full suppers, midnight Revels, Dancing, wine, riotous meetings, which do drown, And bury quite in you all virtuous thoughts, And on your eyelids hang so heavily, They have no power to look so high as heaven, You'd sit and muse on nothing but despair, Curse that devil Lust, that so burns up your blood, And in ten thousand shivers break your glass For his temptation. Say you taste delight, To have a golden Gull from rize to See, To meat you in his hot luxurious arms, Yet your nights pay for all: I know you dream Of warrants, whips, & Beadles, and then start At a doors windy creak: think every weasel To be a Constable: and every Rat A long tailed Officer: Are you now not slaves? Oh you have damnation without pleasure for it! Such is the state of Harlots. To conclude, When you are old, and can well paint no more, You turn Bawd, and are then worse than before: Make use of this: farewell.
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)
Me thinks a toad is happier then a whore, That with one poison swells, with thousands more The other stocks her veines: harlot: fie! fie, You are the miserablest Creatures breathing, The very slaues of nature: marke me else, You put on rich attires, others eyes weare them, You eat, but to supply your blood with sin, And this strange curse ee'ne haunts you to your graues. From fooles you get, and spend it vpon slaues: Like Beares and Apes, y'are bayted and shew tricks For money; but your Bawd the sweetnesse licks. Indeed you are their Iourney-women, and doe All base and damnd workes they list set you to: So that you n'ere are rich; for doe but shew me, In present memory, or in ages past, The fayrest and most famous Courtezan, Whose flesh was dear'st; that raisd the price of sin, And held it vp; to whose intemperate bosome, Princes, Earles, Lords, the worst has bin a knight, The mean'st a Gentleman, haue offred vp Whole Hecatombs of sighs, & raind in showres Handfuls of gold, yet for all this, at last Diseases suckt her marrow, then grew so poore, That she has begd, e'ene at a beggers doore. And (wherin heau'n has a singer) when this Idoll, From coast to coast, has leapt on forrayne shores, And had more worship, thē th'outlandish whores: When seuerall Nations haue gone ouer her, When for eache seuerall City she has seene, Her Maydenhead has bin new, & bin sold deare: Did liue wel there, & might haue dyde vnknown, And vndefam'd; back comes she to her owne, And there both miserably liues and dyes, Scornd euen of those, that once ador'd her eyes, As if her fatall-circled life, thus ranne, Her pride should end there, where it first began. What do you weepe to heare your Story read? Nay, if you spoyle your cheeks, Ile read no more. O yes, I pray proceed: Indeed 'twill do me good to weepe indeed. To giue those teares a rellish, this I adde, Y'are like the Iewes, scatterd, in no place certain, Your daies are tedious, your houres burdensome: And wer't not for full suppers, midnight Reuels, Dauncing, wine, ryotous meetings, which doe drowne, And bury quite in you all vertuous thoughts, And on your eye-lids hang so heauily, They haue no power to looke so high as heauen, Youde sit and muse on nothing but despayre, Curse that deuil Lust, that so burnes vp your blood, And in ten thousand shiuers breake your glasse For his temptation. Say you taste delight, To haue a golden Gull from ize to See, To meat you in his hote luxurious armes, Yet your nights pay for all: I know you dreame Of warrants, whips, & Beadles, and then start At a dores windy creake: thinke euery Weezle To be a Constable: and euery Rat A long tayld Officer: Are you now not slaues? Oh you haue damnation without pleasure for it! Such is the state of Harlots. To conclude, When you are old, and can well paynt no more, You turne Bawd, and are then worse then before: Make vse of this: farewell.