Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 496 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
Alas sir, be appeased! I could not think My being at the window should more, now, Move your impatience, then at other times. No? not to seek, and entertain a parley, With a known knave? before a multitude? You were an actor, with your handkerchief! Which he, most sweetly, kissed in the receipt, And might (no doubt) return it, with a letter, And point the place, where you might meet: your sisters, Your mothers, or your ants might serve the turn. Why, dear sir, when do I make these excuses? Or ever stir, abroad, but to the church? And that, so seldom— Well, it shall be less; And thy restraint, before, was liberty, To what I now decree: and therefore, mark me. First, I will have this bawdy light damned up; And, till 't be done, some two, or three yards off, I'll chalk a line: o'er which, if thou but chance To set thy desp'rate foot; more hell, more horror, More wild, remorceless rage shall seize on thee, Then on a conjuror, that, had heedless left His circle's safety, ere his devil was laid. Then, here's a lock, which I will hang upon thee; And, now I think on't, I will keep thee backwards; Thy lodging shall be backwards; thy walks backwards; Thy prospect-all be backwards; and no pleasure, That thou shalt know but backwards: Nay, since you force My honest nature, know, it is your own Being too open, makes me use you thus. Since you will not contain your subtle nostrils In a sweet room, but they must snuff the air Of rank, and sweaty passengers— One knocks. Away, and be not seen, pain of thy life; Not look toward the window: if thou dost— (Nay stay, hear this) let me not prosper, whore, But I will make thee an anatomy, Dissect thee mine own self, and read a lecture Upon thee, to the city, and in public. Away. Who's there? 'Tis signor MOSCA, sir. LEt him come in, his master's dead: There's yet Some good, to help the bad. My MOSCA, welcome, I guess your news. I fear you cannot, sir. Is't not his death? Rather the contrary. Not his recovery? Yes, sir, I am cursed, I am bewitched, my crosses meet to vex me. How? how? how? how? Why, sir, with SCOTO'S oil! CORBACCIO, and VOLTORE brought of it, Whilst I was busy in an inner room— Death! that damned mountebank! but, for the law, Now, I could kill the rascal: 't cannot be, His oil should have that virtue. Ha' not I Known him a common rogue, come fiddling in To th'osteria, with a tumbling whore, And, when he has done all his forced tricks, been glad Of a poor spoonful of dead wine, with flies in't? It cannot be. All his ingredients be a sheeps gall, a roasted bitch's marrow, Some few sod earwigs, pounded caterpillars, A little capon's grease, and fasting spital: I know 'em, to a dram.
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)
Alasse sir, be appeas'd! I could not thinke My being at the windore should more, now, Moue your impatience, then at other times. No? not to seeke, and entertaine a parlee, With a knowne knaue? before a multitude? You were an actor, with your handkerchiefe! Which he, most sweetly, kist in the receipt, And might (no doubt) returne it, with a letter, And point the place, where you might meet: your sisters, Your mothers, or your aunts might serue the turne. Why, deare sir, when doe I make these excuses? Or euer stirre, abroad, but to the church? And that, so seldome— Well, it shall be lesse; And thy restraint, before, was libertie, To what I now decree: and therefore, marke me. First, I will haue this bawdy light dam'd vp; And, til 't be done, some two, or three yards off, I'le chalke a line: o're which, if thou but chance To set thy desp'rate foot; more hell, more horror, More wilde, remorcelesse rage shall seize on thee, Then on a coniurer, that, had heedlesse left His circles safetie, ere his deuill was laid. Then, here's a locke, which I will hang vpon thee; And, now I thinke on't, I will keepe thee backe-wards; Thy lodging shall be backe-wards; thy walkes back-wards; Thy prospect-all be backe-wards; and no pleasure, That thou shalt know but backe-wards: Nay, since you force My honest nature, know, it is your owne Being too open, makes me vse you thus. Since you will not containe your subtle nostrils In a sweet roome, but they must snuffe the ayre Of ranke, and sweatie passengers—One knockes. Away, and be not seene, paine of thy life; Not looke toward the windore: if thou dost— (Nay stay, heare this) let me not prosper, whore, But I will make thee an anatomie, Dissect thee mine owne selfe, and read a lecture Vpon thee, to the citie, and in publique. Away. Who's there? 'Tis signior MOSCA, sir. LEt him come in, his master's dead: There's yet Some good, to helpe the bad. My MOSCA, welcome, I ghesse your newes. I feare you cannot, sir. Is't not his death? Rather the contrarie. Not his recouerie? Yes, sir, I am curst, I am bewitch'd, my crosses meet to vex me. How? how? how? how? Why, sir, with SCOTO'S oyle! CORBACCIO, and VOLTORE brought of it, Whil'st I was busie in an inner roome— Death! that damn'd mountebanke! but, for the law, Now, I could kill the raskall: 't cannot be, His oyle should haue that vertue. Ha' not I Knowne him a common rogue, come fidling in To th'osteria, with a tumbling whore, And, when he ha's done all his forc'd trickes, beene glad Of a poore spoonefull of dead wine, with flyes in't? It cannot be. All his ingredients Area sheepes gall, a rosted bitches marrow, Some few sod earewigs, pounded caterpillers, A little capons grease, and fasting spittle: I know 'hem, to a dram.