Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) comedy · King's Men T52 Prodigals, portions and poor kin typicality 0.81 · 474 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T52: brother, father, uncle, cousin, son, poor, bread, old, given, master.
ay, do, do, do. Most blessed cordial! This will recover him. Yes, do, do, do. I think, it were not best, sir. What? To recover him. O, no, no, no; by no means. Why, sir, this Will work some strange effect, if he but feel it. 'Tis true, therefore forbear, I'll take my venture: Give me't again. At no hand, pardon me; You shall not do yourself that wrong, sir. I Will so advise you, you shall have it all. How? All, sir, 'tis your right, your own; no man Can claim a part: 'tis yours, without a rival, Decreed by destiny. How? how, good MOSCA? I'll tell you, sir. This fit he shall recover— I do conceive you. And, on first advantage Of his gained sense, will I re-importune him Unto the making of his testament: And show him this. Good, good. 'Tis better yet, If you will hear, sir. Yes, with all my heart. Now, would I counsel you, make home with speed; There, frame a will: whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heir. And disinherit My son? O, sir, the better: for that colour Shall make it much more taking. O, but colour? This will, sir, you shall send it unto me. Now, when I come to enforce (as I will do) Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers, Your more than many gifts, your this days present, And, last, produce your will; where (without thought, Or least regard, unto your proper issue, A son so brave, and highly meriting) The stream of your diverted love hath thrown you Upon my master, and made him your heir: He cannot be so stupid, or stone dead, But, out of conscience, and mere gratitude— He must pronounce me, his? 'Tis true. This plot Did I think on before. I do believe it. Do you not believe it? Yes, sir. Mine own project. Which when he hath done, sir— Published me his heir? And you so certain, to survive him— I. Being so lusty a man— 'Tis true. Yes, sir— I thought on that too. See, how he should be The very organ, to express my thoughts! You have not only done yourself a good— But multiplied it on my son? 'Tis right, sir. Still, my invention. 'las sir, heaven knows, It hath been all my study, all my care, (I'e'en grow grey withal) how to work things— I do conceive, sweet MOSCA. You are he, For whom I labour, here. ay, do, do, do: I'll straight about it. Rooke go with you, raven. I know thee honest. You do lie, sir— And— Your knowledge is no better than your ears, sir. I do not doubt, to be a father to thee. Nor I, to gull my brother of his blessing. I may ha' my youth restored to me, why not?
seed 43: T52 · seed 44: T52 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I, doe, doe, doe. Most blessed cordiall! This will recouer him. Yes, doe, doe, doe. I thinke, it were not best, sir. What? To recouer him. O, no, no, no; by no meanes. Why, sir, this Will worke some strange effect, if he but feele it. 'Tis true, therefore forbeare, I'le take my venter: Giue me't againe. At no hand, pardon me; You shall not doe your selfe that wrong, sir. I Will so aduise you, you shall haue it all. How? All, sir, 'tis your right, your owne; no man Can claime a part: 'tis yours, without a riuall, Decree'd by destinie. How? how, good MOSCA? I'le tell you, sir. This fit he shall recouer— I doe conceiue you. And, on first aduantage Of his gayn'd sense, will I re-importune him Vnto the making of his testament: And shew him this. Good, good. 'Tis better yet, If you will heare, sir. Yes, with all my heart. Now, would I counsell you, make home with speed; There, frame a will: whereto you shall inscribe My master your sole heire. And disinherit My sonne? O, sir, the better: for that colour Shall make it much more taking. O, but colour? This will, sir, you shall send it vnto me. Now, when I come to inforce (as I will doe) Your cares, your watchings, and your many prayers, Your more then many gifts, your this dayes present, And, last, produce your will; where (without thought, Or least regard, vnto your proper issue, A sonne so braue, and highly meriting) The streame of your diuerted loue hath throwne you Vpon my master, and made him your heire: He cannot be so stupide, or stone dead, But, out of conscience, and mere gratitude— He must pronounce me, his? 'Tis true. This plot Did I thinke on before. I doe beleeue it. Doe you not beleeue it? Yes, sir. Mine owne proiect. Which when he hath done, sir— Publish'd me his heire? And you so certayne, to suruiue him— I. Being so lusty a man— 'Tis true. Yes, sir— I thought on that too. See, how he should be The very organ, to expresse my thoughts! You haue not onely done your selfe a good— But multiplyed it on my sonne? 'Tis right, sir. Still, my inuention. 'Lasse sir, heauen knowes, It hath beene all my studie, all my care, (I'eene grow grey withall) how to worke things— I doe conceiue, sweet MOSCA. You are he, For whom I labour, here. I, doe, doe, doe: I'le straight about it. Rooke goe with you, rauen. I know thee honest. You doe lie, sir— And— Your knowledge is no better then your eares, sir. I doe not doubt, to be a father to thee. Nor I, to gull my brother of his blessing. I may ha' my youth restor'd to me, why not?