Sharpham, Edward · published 1607 · first performed or written 1606 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Queen's Revels · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T48 Addressing a lady: love, desire and inti · 510 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T48: lady, love, heart, fair, eyes, la, lord, tears, fie, face.
O that I should love a whore, a very common Cockatrice, my thoughts are drowned in a gulf of sin, she's a very cannibal, which doth devour man's flesh, and a horseleech that sucks out men's best bloods perfection: a very prisoners box, that's ope for every man's benevolence: and I am Heir unto a Duke, yet love her: doth any man here love a whore? ay, who? ay, ay, ay, 'tis I, an arrant punk & common hired Hackney, and yet I love her; I adore her, I dote on her, I worship her, O would some goodman would cut my throat, and put me out of pain— of pain, O that nature would not make an honest woman! She did, she did my Lord. Art there? speak, who was't? Eue, Eue my Lord, she was honest. Art sure on't? I sure my Lord, for there was no man to tempt her but her husband. I thought 'twas some such country Gentlewoman, O Fleire. Fleire I love a whore. Why my Lord, were you never a Soldier? Yes. yes, Why then 'tis your profession, you need not be ashamed of your trade. But Fleire wilt help me, wilt help me man? ay, ay, who is't? Thy Lady, thy elder Lady. O my Lord, love her? why she's a whore. I Fleire, but she may turn. But she is so much worn my Lord, she's not worth turning now. Do not vex me, do not torment me: do not torture me upon the rack of jests, I tell thee if she please, she may turn. I my Lord, tail to her game, like a buzzard hawk, or so: Yet again, now the Devil take thy body, and damnation light upon thy soul, destruction on thy bones, confusion in thy marrow, dost scorn me, mock me, vex me, torment me? dost? dost? I'll hang myself, nay, I'll damn myself rather then love thy Lady, and be abused by thee: I will, I will. O Fleir how does thy Lady? I delivered your letter sir, and she thanks you for't: And how does she? ha, how does she? Faith not well, she has taken physic, and your gentleman usher there ministers to her: she's very great, and she says she feels much stirring in her belly. Sure then Fleir she has eaten too much raw fruit. Upon my life then, they be plums, and the stones make her swell. Sure there. 'tis so, I should send her something to comfort her now being sick: what dost think were best Fleir? Send her an Oaten cake, 'tis a good Northern token: sir Raph Shave sent his Mistress one, but I think a meant to ride a journey on her, and thought Oats would make her travel well. No, Oates is too great a binder after her Physic, I care not if I go and visit her, and carry her a Woodcock. You'll go alone sir. ay, I mean so, but how should I carry him Fleir? Under your Cloak sir, under your Cloak.
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)
O that I should loue a whore, a very common Cocatrise, my thoughts are drown'd in a gulf of sinne, shee's a very Canniball, which doth deuoure mans flesh, and a Horse-leach that sucks out mens best blouds perfection: a very prisoners box, thats ope for euery mans beneuolēce: and I am Heire vnto a Duke, yet loue her: doth any man heere loue a whore? I, who? I, I, I, tis I, an arrant puncke & common hirde Hackney, and yet I loue her; I adore her, I doate on her, I worshippe her, O would some goodman would cut my throate, and put me out of paine—of paine, O that nature would not make an honest woman! She did, she did my Lord. Ar't there? speake, who was't? Eue, Eue my Lord, she was honest. Art sure on't? I sure my Lord, for there was no man to tempt her but her husband. I thought twas some such countrie Gentlewoman, O Fleire. Fleire I loue a whore. Why my Lord, were you neuer a Soldier? Yes. yes, Why then tis your profession, you neede not be asham'd of your trade. But Fleire woot helpe me, woot helpe me man? I, I, who i'st? Thy Lady, thy elder Ladie. O my Lord, loue her? why shee's a whore. I Fleire, but she may turne. But shee is so much worne my Lord, shee's not worth turning now. Doe not vex me, doe not torment me: doe not torture me vpon the racke of ieastes, I tell thee if shee please, she may turne. I my Lord, taile to her game, like a buzard hauk, or so: Yet againe, now the Deuill take thy body, and damnation light vpon thy soule, destruction on thy bones, confusion in thy marrow, dost scorne me, mocke me, vexe me, torment mee? dost? dost? Ile hang my selfe, nay, Ile damne my self rather then loue thy Ladie, and be abusd by thee: I will, I will. O Fleir how does thy Ladie? I deliuerd your letter sir, and she thanks you for't: And how does she? ha, how does she? Faith not well, she has taken phisick, and your gentleman vsher there ministers to her: shees very great, and she sayes she feeles much stirring in her bellie. Sure then Fleir she has eaten too much raw fruit. Vpon my life then, they be plums, and the stones make her swell. Sure ther. t'is so, I should send her something to comfort her nowe beeing sicke: what doest thinke were best Fleir? Send her an Oten cake, t'is a good Northern token: sir Raph Shaue sent his Mistris one, but I think a meant to ride a iourney on her, and thought Otes woulde make her trauell well. No, Oates is too great a binder after her Physicke, I care not if I goe and visite her, and carrie her a Woodcocke. You'le goe alone sir. I, I meane so, but how should I carrie him Fleir? Vnder your Cloke sir, vnder your Cloke.