The Miseries of Enforced Marriage · chunk 42 of 47
Wilkins, George · published 1607 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T23 Husbands, wives and jealousy · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T23: wife, husband, cuckold, jealousy, woman, jealous, mistress, love, house, honest.
But when I came to Church, I did there stand All water, whose forest breach had drowned my Land, Are you my wife, or these my children? Why 'tis impossible, for like the skies, Without the suns light, so look all your eyes, Dark, Cloudy, thick, and full of heaviness, Within my Country there was hope to see Me and my issue to be like our fathers, Upholders of our Country, all our life, Which should ha' been, if I had wed a wife. Where now, As dropping leaves in autumn you look all, And I that should uphold you like to fall, 'twas, nor, shall be my fault. Heaven bear me witness. Thou liest? strumpet thou liest? O Sir. Peace saucy Jack, strumpet I say thou liest, For wife of mine thou art not, and these thy bastards Whom I begot of thee, with this unrest, That Bastards borne, are borne not to be Blessed One me pour all your wrath, but not on them. On thee, and them, for 'tis the end of lust, To scourge itself, heaven lingering to be just: Harlot. Husband. bastards. Father. What heart not pities this? even in your Cradle, you were accursed of heaven, Thou an Adulteress in thy married arms. And they that made the match, bawds to thy lust: ay, now you hang the head, shouldst ha' done so before, Than these had not been Bastards, thou a whore. I cannot brooked no longer, Sir you do not well in this? Ha slave. 'tis not the aim of gentry to bring forth, Such harsh unrelished fruit unto their wives, And to their pretty pretty children by my troth. How rascal. Sir I must tell you, your progenitors Two of the which these years were servant to, Had not such mists before their understanding, Thus to behave themselves. And you'll control me sir. ay, ay, will. You rogue. I 'tis, I will tell you 'tis ungently done Thus to defame your wife, abuse your children, Wrong them, you wrong yourself, are they not yours? Pretty, pretty Impudence in faith, Her whom your are bound to love, to rail against, These whom you are bound to keep, to spurn like dogs, And you were not my master, I would tell you. What slave. Put up your Birdspit, tut I fear it not, In doing deeds so base, so vild as these, 'tis but a Kna, kna, kna. Rogue. Tut howsoever, 'tis a dishonest part, And in defence of these I throw off duty Good Butler. Peace honest Mistress, I will say you are wronged, Prove it upon him, even in his blood, his bones, His guts, his Maw, his Throat, his Entrails. You runagate of threescore, 'tis better than a knave of three and twenty, Patience be my Buckler, As not to file my hands in villains blood, You knave Slave-trencher-groom Who is your master? You if you were a master. Off with your coat then, get you for't a doors. My coat sir. I your coat slave.
seed 43: T26 · seed 44: T28 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
But when I came to Church, I did there stand All water, whose forest breach had drownd my Land, Are you my wife, or these my children? Why tis impossible, for like the skies, Without the sunnes light, so looke al your eies, Darke, Clowdy, thicke, and ful of heauines, Within my Country there was hope to see Me and my yssue to be like our fathers, Vpholders of our Country, al our life, Which should ha bin, if I had wed a wife. Where now, As dropping leaues in Autume you looke al, And I that should vphold you like to fal, Twas, nor, shal be my fault. Heauen bear me witnes. Thou lyest? stumpet thou lyest? O Sir. Peace sawcie Iacke, strumpet I say thou lyest, For wife of mine thou art not, and these thy Basterds Whom I begot of thee, with this vnrest, That Bastards borne, are borne not to be Blest One me poure al your wrath, but not on them. On thee, and them, fot tis the end of lust, To scourge it selfe, heauen lingring to be iust: Harlot. Husband. Bastardes. Father. What hart not pitties this? Euen in your Cradle, you were accurst of heauen, Thou an Adulteresse in thy married armes. And they that made the match, bawds to thy lust: I, now you hang the heade, shouldst ha done so before, Then these had not bin Bastards, thou a whore. I cannot brookt no longer, Sir you doe not well in this? Ha slaue. Tis not the aime of gentry to bring forth, Such harsh vnrellisht fruit vnto their wiues, And to their pretty pretty children by my troth. How rascall. Sir I must tel you, your progenitors Two of the which these yeares were seruant to, Had not such mists before their vnderstanding, Thus to behaue themselues. And youle controule me sir. I, I, will. You rogue. I tis, I will tel you tis vngently done Thus to defame your wife, abuse your children, Wrong them, you wrong your selfe, are they not yours? Pretty, pretty Impudence infaith, Her whom your are bound to loue, to raile against, These whom you are bound to keepe, to spurne like dogs, And you were not my maister, I would tell you. What slaue. Put vp your Bird-spit, tut I feare it not, In doing deeds so base, so vild as these, Tis but a Kna, kna, kna. Roge. Tut howsoeuer, tis a dishonest part, And in defence of these I throw off duty Good Butler. Peace honest Mistris, I will say you are wronged, Proue it vpon him, euen in his blood, his bones, His guts, his Maw, his Throat, his Intrals. You runnagate of threescore, Tis better then a knaue of three and twenty, Patience be my Buckler, As not to file my hands in villaines blood, You knaue Slaue-trencher-groome Who is your maister? You if you were a maister. Off with your coate then, get you fort a doores. My cote sir. I your coat slaue.