1 The Honest Whore (1 The Converted Courtesan) (The Patient Man and the Honest Whore) · chunk 29 of 48
Dekker, Thomas / Middleton, Thomas · published 1604 · first performed or written 1604 (Annals) comedy · Prince Henry's Men unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 493 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
Indeed that's harder to come by then ever was Ostend. Prithee away. I'll make away myself presently, which few Servants will do for their Lords; but rather help to make them away: Now to my doorkeeping, I hope to pick something out of it. My Infaelice's face: her brow, her eye, The dimple on her cheek: and such sweet skill, Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown, These lips look fresh and lively as her own, Seeming to move and speak. 'las I now I see, The reason why fond women love to buy Adulterate complexion: here 'tis read, False colours last after the true be dead. Of all the Roses grafted on her cheeks, Of all the graces dancing in her eyes, Of all the Music set upon her tongue, Of all that was past woman's excellence, In her white bosom, look! a painted board, Circumscribes all: Earth can no bliss afford. Nothing of her, but this? this cannot speak, It has no lap for me to rest upon, No lip worth tasting: here the worms will feed, As in her coffin: hence then idle Art, True love's best pictured in a truelove's heart. Here art thou drawn sweet maid, till this be dead, So that thou liv'st twice, twice art buried. Thou figure of my friend, lie there. What's here? Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enemies: 'las! say it were: I need not fear him now: For all his braves, his contumelious breath, His frowns (though dagger-pointed) all his plot, (Tho' near so mischievous) his Italian pills, His quarrels, and (that common fence) his law, See, see, they're all eaten out; here's not left one? How clean they're picked away! to the bare bone! How mad are mortals then to rear great names On tops of swelling houses? or to wear out Their fingers ends (in dirt,) to scrape up gold! Not caring so (that Sumpter-horse) the back Be hung with gaudy trappings, with what course, Yea rags most beggarly, they clothe the soul: Yet (after all) their Gayness looks thus foul. What fools are men to build a garish tomb, Only to save the carcase whilst it rots, To maintain't long in stinking, make good carrion, But leave no good deeds to preserve them sound, For good deeds keep men sweet, long above ground, And must all come to this; fools; wise, all hither, Must all heads thus at last be laid together: Draw me my picture then, thou grave neat workman, After this fashion, not like this; these colours In time kissing but air, will be kissed off, But here's a fellow; that which he lays on, Till dooms day, altars not complexion. Death's' the best Painter then: They that draw shapes, And live by wicked faces, are but God's Apes, They come but near the life, and there they stay, This fellow draws life to: his Art is fuller, The pictures which he makes are without colour.
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)
Indeed thats harder to come by then euer was Ostend. Prythee away. Ile make away my selfe presently, which few Seruants will doe for their Lords; but rather helpe to make them away: Now to my dore-keeping, I hope to picke something out of it. My Infelices face: her brow, her eye, The dimple on her cheeke: and such sweet skill, Hath from the cunning workemans pencill flowne, These lippes looke fresh and liuely as her owne, Seeming to mooue and speake. Las now I see, The reason why fond women loue to buy Adulterate complexion: here 'tis read, False coulours last after the true be dead. Of all the Roses grafted on her cheekes, Of all the graces dauncing in her eyes, Of all the Musick set vpon her tongue, Of all that was past womans excellence, In her white bosome, looke! a painted board, Circumscribes all: Earth can no blisse affoord. Nothing of her, but this? this cannot speake, It has no lap for me to rest vpon, No lip worth tasting: here the wormes will feed, As in her coffin: hence then idle Art, True loue's best picturde in a true-loues heart. Here art thou drawne sweet maid, till this be dead, So that thou liu'st twice, twice art buried. Thou figure of my friend, lye there. Whats here? Perhaps this shrewd pate was mine enimies: Las! say it were: I need not feare him now: For all his braues, his contumelious breath, His frownes (tho dagger-pointed) all his plot, (Tho 'nere so mischieuous) his Italian pilles, His quarrels, and (that common fence) his law, See, see, they're all eaten out; here's not left one? How cleane they're pickt away! to the bare bone! How mad are mortals then to reare great names On tops of swelling houses? or to weare out Their fingers ends (in durt,) to scrape vp gould! Not caring so (that Sumpter-horse) the back Be hung with gawdy trappings, with what course, Yea rags most beggerly, they cloath the soule: Yet (after all) their Gay-nes lookes thus foule. What fooles are men to build a garish tombe, Onely to saue the carcasse whilst it rots, To maintein't long in stincking, make good carion, But leaue no good deeds to preserue them sound, For good deedes keepe men sweet, long aboue ground, And must all come to this; fooles; wise, all hether, Must all heads thus at last be laid together: Draw me my picture then, thou graue neate workeman, After this fashion, not like this; these coulours In time kissing but ayre, will be kist off, But heres a fellow; that which he layes on, Till doomes day, alters not complexion. Deaths' the best Painter then: They that draw shapes, And liue by wicked faces, are but Gods Apes, They come but neere the life, and there they stay, This fellow drawes life to: his Art is fuller, The pictures which he makes are without coulour.