The Puritan, or The Widow of Watling Street (The Puritan Widow) · chunk 12 of 37
Middleton, Thomas · published 1607 · first performed or written 1606 (Annals) comedy · Children of Paul's (second) unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 474 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
'Tis happiness my Mother saw him not: O welcome good Sir John. I thank you faith,— Nay you must stand me, till I kiss you: 'tis the fashion everywhere I'faith, and I came from Court enough? Nay the Fates forfend that I should anger the fashion? Then not forgetting the sweet of new ceremonies, I first fall back, then recovering myself; make my honour to your lip thus: and then accost it. Trust me, very pretty, and moving, you're worthy on't sir,— O my Mother, my Mother, now she's here, we'll steal into the Gallery. Nay Sister, let Reason rule you, do not play the fool, stand not in your own light, you have wealthy offers, large tend'rings, do not withstand your good fortune: who comes a-wooing to you I pray? no small fool, a rich Knight ath City, Sir Oliver Muckhill, no small fool I can tell you: and furthermore as I heard late by your Maidservants, (as your Maidservants will say to me any thing I thank 'em) both your Daughters are not without Suitors, ay, and worthy ones too? one a Brisk Courtier, Sir Andrew Tipstaff; suitor afar off to your eldest Daughter, and the third a huge-wealthy farmer's son, a fine young Country Knight, they call him Sir Iohn Penny-dub, a good name marry, he may have it coined when he lacks money: what blessings are these Sister? Tempt me not Satan. Satan? do I look like Satan? I hope the devil's not so old as I, I trow. You wound my senses Brother, when you name, A suitor to me,— oh I cannot abide it, I take in poison, when I hear one named, How now Simon? where's my son Edmund? verily madam, he is at vain Exercise, dripping in the Tennis-court. At Tennis-court? oh, now his father's gone, I shall have no rule with him; oh wicked Edmond, I might well compare this with the Prophecy in the Chronicle, though far inferior, as Harry of Monmouth won all, and Harry of Windsor lost all, so Edmund of Bristol that was the Father, got all, and Edmond of London that's his son now, will spend all? Peace Sister, we'll have him reformed, there's hope on him yet, though it be but a little. Forsooth Madam? there are two or three Archers at door, would very gladly speak with your Ladyship. Archers? Your husband's Fletcher I warrant. Oh, Let them come near, they bring home things of his, Troth I should ha' forgot 'em, how now? Villain, which be those Archers? Who do you not see 'em before you, are not these Archers, what do you call 'em Shooters: Shooters and Archers are all one I hope. Out ignorant slave. Nay pray be patient Lady, We come in way of honourable love. we do. To you. And to your Daughters?
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)
'Tis happinesse my Mother saw him not: O we come good Sir Ioha. I thanke you faith,—Nay you must stand mee, till I kisse you: 'tis the fashion euery where I-faith, and I came from Court enow? Nay the Fates forsend that I should anger the fashion? Then not forgetting the sweete of new ceremonies, I first fall back, then recouering my selfe; make my honour to your lip thus: and then accost it. Trust me, very pritty, and mouing, y'are worthy on't sir,— O my Mother, my Mother, now shee's here, Weele steale into the Gallery. Nay Sister, let Reason rule you, doe not play the foole, stand not in your owne light, you haue wealthy offers, large tendrings, doe not with-stand your good fortune: who comes a wooing to you I pray? no small foole, a rich Knight ath Citty, Sir Oliuer Muck-hill, no small foole I can tell you: and furthermore as I heard late by your Maide-seruants, (as your Maide-seruants will say to mee any thing I thanke `em) both your Daughters are not without Suters, I, and worthy ones too? one a Briske Coutier, Sir Andrew Tip-staffe; suter a farre off to your eldest Daughter, and the third a huge-welthie Farmers sonne, a fine young Countrie Knight, they call him Sir Iohn Penny-Dab, a good name marry, hee may haue it coynde when hee lackes money: what blessings are these Sister? Tempt me not Satan. Satan? doe I looke like Satan? I hope the Deuill's not so old as I, I tro. You wound my sences Brother, when you name, A suter to me,—oh I cannot abide it, I take in poison, when I heare one nam'd, How now Simon? where's my sonne Edmund? Veily Madame, hee is at vaine Exercise, dripping in he Tennis-court. At Tennis-court? oh, now his father's gon, I shall haue no rule with him; oh wicked Edmond, I might well compare this with the Prophecie in the Chronicle, tho farte inferior, as Harry of Monmouth woone all, and Harry of Windsor lost all, so Edmund of Brist that was the Father, got all, and Edmond of London that's his sonne now, will spend all? Peace Sister, weele haue hem reformd, there's hope on him yet, tho it be but a little. Forsooth Madam? there are two or three Archers at doore, would very gladly speake with your Ladyship. Archers? Your husbands Fletcher I warrant. Oh, Let them come neere, they bring home things of his, Troth I should ha forgot 'em, how now? Villaine, which be those Archers? Who do you not see 'em before you, are not these Archers, what do you call 'em Shooters: Shooters and Archers are all one I hope. Out ignorant slaue. Nay pray be patient Lady, We come in way of honorable loue. Wee doe. To you. And to your Daughters?