Heywood, Thomas · published 1607 · first performed or written 1603 [Feb 12-Mar 6, payment] (Annals) tragedy · Worcester's Men unassigned nearest T28 Marriage-making: weddings, brides and ma · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T28: married, marriage, wedding, day, bride, father, wife, luce, love, husband.
Your sister takes not after you sir Francis, All his wild blood your father spent on you, He got her in his age when he grew civil, All his mad tricks were to his land entailed, And you are heir to all: your sister, she Hath to her dower, her mother's modesty. Lord sir, in what a happy state live you, This morning, which to many seems a burden, too Heavy to bear, is unto you a pleasure. This Lady is no clog, as many are, She doth become you like a well made suit In which the tailor hath used all his art: Not like a thick Coat of unseasoned freeze, Forced on your back in summer; she's no chain To tie your neck, and curb you to the yoke, But she's a chain of gold to adorn your neck, You both adore each other, and your hands Methinks are matches, there's equality, In this fair combination; you are both Scholars, Both young, both being descended nobly: There's music in this sympathy, it carries Comfort and expectation of much joy, Which God bestow on you, from this first day, Until your dissolution, that's for aye. We keep you here to long good brother Frankford, Into the hall. Away, go, cheer your guests? What, Bride, and Bridegroom both withdrawn at once? I you be mist, the guests wil doubt their welcome, And charge you with unkindness? To prevent it, I'll leave you here, to see the dance within. And so will I. To part you it were sin. Now gallants while the Town musicians Finger their frets within, and the mad lads And country lasses, every mother's child With nosegays and bride-laces in their hats, Dance all their Country measures rounds and jigs, What shall we do? Hark, they are all on the hoygh, They toil like mill-horses, and turn as round; Marry not on the toe, ay, and they Caper But without cutting, you shall see tomorrow The hall flower pecked and dinted like a Millstone, Made with their high shoes, though their skill be small, Yet they tread heavy where their Hobnails fall. Well, leave them to their sports, Sir Francis Acton I'll make a match with you, meet me tomorrow At Chevy-Chase, I'll fly my Hawk with yours. For what? for what? Why for a hundred pound. Pawn me some gold of that. Here are ten angels, I'll make them good a hundred pound tomorrow Upon my Hawks wing. 'tis a match, 'tis done, another hundred pound upon your Dogs, Dare you Sir Charles? I dare, were I sure to lose I durst do more than that: here's my hand, The first course for a hundred pound. A match. Ten Angels on sir Francis Acton's Hawk: As much upon his Dogs. I am for Sir Charles Mountford, I have seen His hawk and Dog both tried? What clap you hands? Or is't no bargain? Yes and stake them down, Were they five hundred they were all my own.
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)
Your sister takes not after you sir Francis, All his wilde bloud your father spent on you, He got her in his age when he grew ciuill, All his mad tricks were to his land intaild, And you are heire to al: your sister, she Hath to her dower, her mothers modesty. Lord sir, in what a happy state liue you, This morning, which to many seemes a burden, too Heauy to beare, is vnto you a pleasure. This Lady is no clog, as many are, She doth become you like a well made suite In which the Taylor hath vsd all his art: Not like a thicke Coate of vnseasond freeze, Forst on your backe in summer; shees no chaine To ty your necke, and curbe you to the yoake, But shees a chaine of gold to adorne your neck, You both adore each other, and your hands Methinkes are matches, theres equality, In this faire combination; you are both Schollers, Both young, both being descended nobly: Theres musick in this simpathy, it caries Comfort and expectation of much ioy, Which God bestow on you, from this first day, Vntill your dissolution, thats for aye. We keepe you here to long good brother Franckford, Into the hal. Away, go, cheare your guests? What, Bride, and Bride-groom both withdrawne at once? I you be mist, the guests wil doubt their welcome, And charge you with vnkindnes? To preuent it, Ile leaue you here, to see the dance within. And so wil I. To part you it were sin. Now gallants while the Towne Musitians Finger their frets within, and the mad lads And country lasses, euery mothers child With nose-gaies and Bridelaces in their hats, Dance al their Country measures rounds and Iigges, What shall we do? Harke, they are all on the hoygh, They toile like Mil-horsses, and turne as round; Marry not on the toe, I, and they Caper But without cutting, you shall see to morrow The hall floure peckt and dinted like a Milstone, Made with their high shooes, though their skill be small, Yet they tread heauy where their Hob-nailes fall. Well, leaue them to their sports, Sir Francis Acton Ile make a match with you, meet me to morrow At Cheuy-chafe, Ile flie my Hawke with yours. For what? for what? Why for a hundred pound. Pawne me some gold of that. Here are ten angels, Ile make them good a hundred pound to morrow Vpon my Hawkes wing. Tis a match, tis done, An other hundred pound vpon your Dogs, Dare you Sir Charles? I dare, were I sure to loose I durst do more then that: heeres my hand, The first course for a hundred pound. A match. Ten Angels on sir Francis Actons Hawk: As much vpon his Dogs. I am for Sir Charles Mountford, I haue seene His hawke and Dog both tride? What clap you hands? Or ist no bargaine? Yes and stake them downe, Were thy fiue hundred they were all my owne.