1 The Honest Whore (1 The Converted Courtesan) (The Patient Man and the Honest Whore) · chunk 48 of 48
Dekker, Thomas / Middleton, Thomas · published 1604 · first performed or written 1604 (Annals) comedy · Prince Henry's Men unassigned nearest T3 Sickness, physic and doctors · 459 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
Come hither signor— Are you mad. You are not mad. Why I know that. Then may you know, I am not mad, that know You are not mad, and that you are the duke: None is mad here but one— How do you wife: What do you long for now?— pardon my Lord, She had lost her child's nose else: I did cut out pennyworths of Lawn, the Lawn was yet mine own: A carpet was yet my gown, yet 'twas mine own, I wore my man's coat. yet the cloth mine own, Had a cracked crown the crown was yet mine own, She says for this I'm mad, were her words true, I should be mad indeed— o foolish skill, Is patience madness? I'll be a madman still. Forgive me, and i'll vex your spirit no more. Come, come, we'll have you friends, join hearts, join hands. See my Lord, we are even, Nay rise, for ill-deeds kneel unto none but heaven. signor, methinks, patience has laid on you Such heavy weight, that you should loathe it. Loath it. For he whose breast is tender blood so cool, That no wrongs heat it, is a patient fool, What comfort do you find in being so calm. That which green wounds receive from sovereign balm, Patience my Lord; why 'tis the soul of peace: Of all the virtues 'tis near'st kin to heaven. It makes men look like Gods; the best of men That ere wore earth about him, was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, The first true Gentleman that ever breathed; The stock of Patience then cannot be poor, All it desires, it has; what Monarch more? It is the greatest enemy to law That can be, for it doth embrace all wrongs, And so chains up, lawyers and women's tongues. 'tis the perpetual prisoner's liberty: His walks and Orchards: 'tis the bondslaves freedom, And makes him seem proud of each iron chain. As though he wore it more for state than pain: It is the beggars Music, and thus sings, Although their bodies beg, their souls are kings: O my dread liege! It is the sap of bliss, Rears us aloft; makes men and Angels kiss, And (last of all) to end a household strife, It is the honey 'gainst a waspish wife. Thou giv'st it lively colours: who dare say he's mad, whose words march in so good array? 'twere sin all women should such husbands have. For every man must then be his wives slave. Come therefore you shall teach our court to shine, So calm a spirit is worth a golden Mine, wives (with meek husbands) that to vex them long, In Bedlam must they dwell, else dwell they wrong.
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)
Come hither Signior—Are you mad. You are not mad. Why I know that. Then may you know, I am not mad, that know You are not mad, and that you are the duke: None is mad here but one—How do you wife: What do you long for now?—pardon my Lord, Shee had lost her childes nose els: I did cut out Penniworths of Lawne, the Lawne was yet mine owne: A carpet was yet my gowne, yet twas mine owne, I wore my mans coate▪ yet the cloath mine owne, Had a crackt crowne the crowne was yet mine owne, She sayes for this Ime mad, were her words true, I should be mad indeed — ô foolish skill, Is patience madnesse? Ile be a mad-man still. Forgiue me, and ile vex your spirit no more. Come, come, weele haue you friends, ioyne hearts, ioyne hands. See my Lord, we are euen, Nay rise, for ill-deeds kneele vnto none but heauen. Signior, me thinkes, patience has laid on you Such heauy waight, that you should loath it. Loath it. For he whose brest is tender bloud so coole, That no wrongs heate it, is a patient foole, What comfort do you finde in being so calme. That which greene wounds receiue frō soueraigne balme, Patience my Lord; why tis the soule of peace: Of all the vertues tis neerst kin to heauen. It makes men looke like Gods; the best of men That ere wore earth about him, was a sufferer, A soft, meeke, patient, humble, tranquill spirit, The first true Gentleman that euer breathd; The stock of Patience then cannot be poore, All it desires, it has; what Monarch more? It is the greatest enemy to law That can be, for it doth embrace all wrongs, And so chaines vp, lawyers and womens tongues. Tis the perpetuall prisoners liberty: His walkes and Orchards: 'tis the bond-slaues freedome, And makes him seeme prowd of each yron chaine. As tho he wore it more for state then paine: It is the beggers Musick, and thus sings, Although their bodies beg, their soules are kings: O my dread liege! It is the sap of blisse, Reares vs aloft; makes men and Angels kisse, And (last of all) to end a houshould strife, It is the hunny gainst a waspish wife. Thou giu'ft it liuely coulours: who dare say he's mad, whose words march in so good aray? Twere sinne all women should such husbands haue. For euery man must then be his wiues slaue. Come therefore you shall teach o court to shine, So calme a spirit is worth a golden Mine, Wiues (with meeke husbands) that to vex them long, In Bedlam must they dwell, els dwell they wrong.