Armin, Robert · published 1609 · first performed or written 1606 [c.1606-1608] (Annals) comedy · Children of the King's Revels unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 462 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
give order for the banquet, within there. Sir, what is your will? To murder thee, She dies sir, if I live, I am a Pothecary. And can knead the paste to purpose, she is gone Had she a thousand lives laid up in one. Wife, I must have thee paint, And set a gloss upon this lovely front, To move, and to attract all eyes look as the summer, Which glads all hearts with his blood-creasing spring: Use thy best graces, though most proudly I will have it so, fit thee to all state, Decked in thy choicest ornament, shine glow-worm, In the noon of night, for at this supper. I will have more than all our friends, Music several, Masques and revelings. In which thou shalt be mounted as the bride, And I the jolly Bridegroom, will tend on thee, As duty and the time commands me. Whereof comes this cost? Examine not, but lay your best end now to't Council with this Pothecary which I sent for To the business, pray ye use your art: For I am bent to this consumption, Where's our servant Iames? Within sir, shall I call him? No, I will wait on him, for 'tis my duty. Such as would spend in feasts, are but the slaves, To attend the pleasures of consuming knaves. And I am one of those, he is the flower That I must crop too in this fatal hour. Pray ye appoint sir, she will fit you well, My purse shall purvey what you shall determine, What we will be wasteful sometime, & our own, We uncontrolled may dispose of: 'tis our love, Rather our destiny, hate joined to this brow, A horn that draws on death, no matter how. Sir, in my closet serve yourself with sugars, there are spices of the purest, use them in this cost, what else you want, please you command, they shall attend you. I want virtue in a mother, are you one? I am a mother to an absent son, But not to virtue wanting, wrong me not. Wrong not yourself. I never will. You have. Humil, O my shame and not my son. By thee a mother is made miserable. By me black fin? no by thy own neglect, made perfect by my true intelligence, and however cunning masked and donned the vizard that so muffled me, I knew not who was in the bed. Your eyes were witnesses. And holy ones. Found you the man you looked for? No, 'twas a subtle strain, so hoodwinked truth, I am a traitor if I did not see Iames your man fast in your arms. Thou art a traitor then, if any Iames were there, he was no man of mine, he was thy father.
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)
giue order for the banquet, within there. Sir, what is your will? To murder thee, She dies sir, if I liue, I am a Pothecary. And can knead the paste to purpose, she is gon Had she a thousand liues laid vp in one. Wife, I must haue thee paint, And set a glosse vpon this louely front, To moue, and to attract all eies looke as the sonmer, Which glads all hearts with his bloud-creasing spring: Vse thy best graces, though most proudly I will haue it so, fit thee to all state, Deck't in thy choisest ornament, shine glo-worme, In the noone of night, for at this supper. I will haue more then all our friends, Musike seuerall, Masques and Reuellings. In which thou shalt be mounted as the bride, And I the iolly Bridegrome, will tend on thee, As duty and the time commands me. Whereof comes this cost? Examine not, but lay your best end now to't Councell with this Pothecary which I sent for To the businesse, pray ye vse your art: For I am bent to this consumption, Wheres our seruant Iames? Within sir, shall I call him? No, I wil waite on him, for tis my duty. Such as would spend in feasts, are but the slaues, To attend the pleasures of consuming knaues. And I am one of those, he is the flower That I must crop too in this fatall hower. Pray ye appoint sir, she will fit you well, My purse shall puruey what you shall determine, What we will be wastful sometime, & our owne, We vncontrol'd may dispose of: tis our loue, Rather our destinie, hate ioin'd to this brow, A horne that drawes on death, no matter how. Sir, in my closset serue your selfe with sugers, there are spices of the purest, vse them in this cost, what else you want, please you command, they shall attend you. I want vertue in a mother, are you one? I am a mother to an absent sonne, But not to vertue wanting, wrong me not. Wrong not yourselfe. I neuer will. You haue. Humil, O my shame and not my sonne. By thee a mother is made miserable. By me blacke finne? no by thy owne neglect, made perfect by my true intelligence, and how euer cunning masqu'd and don'd the vissard that so mussled me, I knew not who was in the bed. Your eies were witnesses. And holy ones. Found you the man you loo'kt for? No, twas a subtill straine, so hudwink't truth, I am a traytor if I did not see Iames your man fast in your armes. Thou art a traytor then, if any Iames were there, hee was no man of mine, he was thy father.