Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1605 [1605-1606] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds · 497 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
Draw you Rascal, you come with Letters against the King, and take Vanity the puppets part, against the Royalty of her Father: draw you Rogue, or I'll so carbonado your shanks, draw you Rascal, come your ways. Help, ho, murder, help. Strike you slave: stand rogue, stand you neat slave, strike. Helpe hoa, murder, murder. How now, what's the matter? Part. With you goodman Boy, if you please, come, I'll flesh ye, come on young Master. Weapons? Arms? what's the matter here? Keep peace upon your lives, he dies that strikes again, what is the matter? The Messengers from our Sister, and the King? What is your difference, speak? I am scarce in breath my Lord. No Marvel, you have so bestirred your valour, you cowardly Rascal, nature disclaims in thee: a Tailor made thee. Thou art a strange fellow, a Tailor make a man? A Taylor Sir, a Stone-cutter, or a Painter, could not have made him so ill, though they had been but two years o'th' trade. Speak yet, how grew your quarrel? This ancient Ruffian Sir, whose life I have spared at suit of his graybeard. Thou whoreson Said, thou unnecessary letter: my Lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unboulted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. Spare my graybeard, you wagtail? Peace sirrah, You beastly knave, know you no reverence? Yes Sir, but anger hath a privilege. Why art thou angry? That such a slave as this should wear a Sword, Who wears no honesty: such smiling rogues as these, Like Rats oft bite the holy cords a twain, Which are t' intrince, t' unloose: smooth every passion That in the natures of their Lords rebel, Being oil to fire, snow to the colder moods, Revenge, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks With every gall, and vary of their Masters, Knowing naught (like dogs) but following: A plague upon your Epilepticke visage, Smile you my speeches, as I were a Fool? Goose, if I had you upon Sarum Plaine, I'd drive ye cackling home to Camelot. What art thou mad old Fellow? How fell you out, say that? No contraries hold more antipathy, Then I, and such a knave. Why dost thou call him Knave? What is his fault? His countenance likes me not. No more perchance does mine, not his, nor hers. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plain, I have seen better faces in my time, Then stands on any shoulder that I see Before me, at this instant. This is some Fellow, Who having been praised for bluntness, doth affect A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb Quite from his Nature. He cannot flatter he, An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth, And they will take it so, if not, he's plain. These kind of Knaves I know, which in this plainness Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends, Then twenty silly-ducking observants, That stretch their duties nicely.
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)
Draw you Raſcall, you come with Letters againſt the King, and take Vanitie the puppets part, againſt the Royaltie of her Father: draw you Rogue, or Ile ſo carbonado your ſhanks, draw you Raſcall, come your waies. Helpe, ho, murther, helpe. Strike you ſlaue: ſtand rogue, ſtand you neat ſlaue, ſtrike. Helpe hoa, murther, murther. How now, what's the matter? Part. With you goodman Boy, if you pleaſe, come, Ile fleſh ye, come on yong Maſter. Weapons? Armes? what's the matter here? Keepe peace vpon your liues, he dies that ſtrikes againe, what is the matter? The Meſſengers from our Siſter, and the King? What is your difference, ſpeake? I am ſcarce in breath my Lord. No Maruell, you haue ſo beſtir'd your valour, you cowardly Raſcall, nature diſclaimes in thee: a Taylor made thee. Thou art a ſtrange fellow, a Taylor make a man? A Taylor Sir, a Stone-cutter, or a Painter, could not haue made him ſo ill, though they had bin but two yeares oth' trade. Speake yet, how grew your quarrell? This ancient Ruffian Sir, whoſe life I haue ſpar'd at ſute of his gray-beard. Thou whoreſon Zed, thou vnneceſſary letter: my Lord, if you will giue me leaue, I will tread this vnboulted villaine into morter, and daube the wall of a Iakes with him. Spare my gray-beard, you wagtaile? Peace ſirrah, You beaſtly knaue, know you no reuerence? Yes Sir, but anger hath a priuiledge. Why art thou angrie? That ſuch a ſlaue as this ſhould weare a Sword, Who weares no honeſty: ſuch ſmiling rogues as theſe, Like Rats oft bite the holy cords a twaine, Which are t' intrince, t' vnlooſe: ſmooth euery paſſion That in the natures of their Lords rebell, Being oile to fire, ſnow to the colder moodes, Reuenge, affirme, and turne their Halcion beakes With euery gall, and varry of their Maſters, Knowing naught (like dogges) but following: A plague vpon your Epilepticke viſage, Smoile you my ſpeeches, as I were a Foole? Gooſe, if I had you vpon Sarum Plaine, I'ld driue ye cackling home to Camelot. What art thou mad old Fellow? How fell you out, ſay that? No contraries hold more antipathy, Then I, and ſuch a knaue. Why do'ſt thou call him Knaue? What is his fault? His countenance likes me not. No more perchance do's mine, not his, nor hers. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plaine, I haue ſeene better faces in my time, Then ſtands on any ſhoulder that I ſee Before me, at this inſtant. This is ſome Fellow, Who hauing beene prais'd for bluntneſſe, doth affect A ſaucy roughnes, and conſtraines the garb Quite from his Nature. He cannot flatter he, An honeſt mind and plaine, he muſt ſpeake truth, And they will take it ſo, if not, hee's plaine. Theſe kind of Knaues I know, which in this plainneſſe Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends, Then twenty ſilly-ducking obſeruants, That ſtretch their duties nicely.