Middleton, Thomas · published 1607 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T52 Prodigals, portions and poor kin · 493 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T52: brother, father, uncle, cousin, son, poor, bread, old, given, master.
Study why to think how a great rich man lies a dying, and a poor Cobbler tolls the bell for him? how he cannot depart the world, and see the great chest-stand before him, when he lies speechless, how he will point you readily to all the boxes, and when he is past all memory, as the gossips guess, then thinks he of forfeitures and obligations, nay when to all men's hearings he whirls and rattles in the throat he's busy threatening his poor Tenants? and this would last me now some seven years thinking or thereabouts? but, I have a Conceit a coming in picture upon this, I draw it myself, which i'faith la I'll present to your honour, you shall not chose but like it for your Lordship shall give me nothing for it, Nay you mistake me then, For I am published bountiful enough, Let's taste of your conceit. In picture my Lord. I in picture, Marry this it is— A usuring Father to be boiling in hell, and his son and Heir with a Whore dancing over him. Has pared him to the quick. The conceit's pretty i'faith, But take't upon my life 'twill near be liked. No, why I'm sure the whore will be liked well enough. I if she were out ath picture heed like her then himself. And as for the son and heir, he shall be an eyesore to no young Revellers, for he shall be drawn in cloth of gold breeches. And thou hast put my meaning in the pock, And canst not draw that out, my thought was this, ets To see the picture of a usuring father Boiling in hell, our richmen would near like it, O true I cry you heartily mercy I know the reason, for some of'em had rather be damned indeed, than damned in colours. A perilous melancholy, has wit enough, To murder any man, and I'll give him means, I think thou art ill moneyed; Money, ho, ho, Tas been my want so long, 'tis now my scoff. I've e'en forgot what colour silver's off, It hits as I could wish, I get good clothes, Of those that dread my humour, and for table-room, I feed on those that cannot be rid of me, Somewhat to set thee up withal, O mine eyes, How now man. Almost struck blind, This bright unusual shine, to me seems proud, I dare not look till the sun be in a cloud, I think I shall affect his melancholy, How are they now. The better for your asking. You shall be better yet if you but fasten, Truly on my intent, now you're both present I will unbrace such a close private villain, Unto your vengeful swords, the like near heard of, Who hath disgraced you much and injured us, Disgraced us my Lord? I Hippolito. I kept it here till now that both your angers, Might meet him at once,
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)
Study why to thinke how a great rich man lies a dying, and a poore Cobler toales the bell for him? how he cannot depart the world, and see the great chest-stand before him, when hee lies speechlesse, how hee will point you readily to all the boxes, and when hee is past all memory, as the gosseps gesse, then thinkes hee of forffetures and obligations, nay when to all mens hearings he whurles and rotles in the throate hee's bussie threatning his poore Tennants? and this would last me now some seauen yeares thinking or there abouts? but, I haue a Conceit a comming in picture vpon this, I drawe it my selfe, which ifaith la Ile present to your honor, you shall not chose but like it for your Lordship shall giue me nothing for it, Nay you misstake me then, For I am publisht bountifull inough, Lets tast of your conceit. In picture my Lord. I in picture, Marry this it is—A vsuring Father to be boyling in hell, and his sonne and Heire with a Whore dancing ouer him. Has par'd him to the quicke. The conceit's pritty ifaith, But tak't vpon my life twill nere be likt. No, why Ime sure the whore will be likt well enough. I if she were out ath picture heede like her then himselfe. And as for the sonne and heire, he shall be an eyefore to no young Reuellers, for hee shall bee drawne in cloth of gold breeches. And thou hast put my meaning in the pock, And canst not draw that out, my thought was this, ets To see the picture of a vsuring father Boyling in hell, our richmen would nere like it, O true I cry you heartly mercy I hnow the reason, for some of'em had rather be dambd indeed, thē dambd in colours. A parlous melancholy, has wit enough, To murder any man, and Ile giue him meanes, I thinke thou art ill monied; Money, ho, ho, Tas beene my want so long, tis now my scoffe. Iue ene forgot what colour siluers off, It hits as I could wish, I get good cloths, Of those that dread my humour, and for table-roome, I feed on those that cannot be rid of me, Somewhat to set thee vp withall, O mine eyes, How now man. Almost strucke blind, This bright vnusuall shine, to me seemes proud, I dare not looke till the sunne be in a cloud, I thinke I shall afecte his melancholy, How are they now. The better for you rasking. You shall be better yet if you but fasten, Truly on my intent, now yare both present I will vnbrace such a closse priuate villayne, Vnto your vengfull swords, the like nere heard of, Who hath disgrac'd you much and iniur'd vs, Disgraced vs my Lord? I Hippolito. I kept it here till now that both your angers, Might meete him at once,