Barry, Lording · published 1611 · first performed or written 1608 [1608-1610(?)] (Annals) comedy · Children of the King's Revels unassigned nearest T28 Marriage-making: weddings, brides and ma · 486 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T28: married, marriage, wedding, day, bride, father, wife, luce, love, husband.
Why that's his occupation, he will cheat In a cloak lined with Velvet, a will prate Faster than five Barbers and a tailor, Lie faster than ten City occupiers, Or cunning tradesmen: goes a trust In every Tavern where has spent a faggot, Swears love to every whore, squires bawds, And takes up houses for them as their husband. A is a man I love, and have done much To bring him to preferment. Is there no trust, No honesty in men. Faith some there is, And 'tis all in the hands of us Lawyers And women, and those women which have it, Keep their honesty so close, that not one Amongst a hundred is perceived to have it. Good sir, may I not by law forsake him And wed another, though my word be past To be his wife. O questionless you may, You have many precedents and bookcases for't, Nay, though you were married by a bookcase, Of Milesimo sexantesimo, &c. You may forsake your husband, and wed another, Provided that some fault be in the husband, As none of them are clear. I am resolved, I will not wed him, though I beg my bread. All that I have is yours, and were I worthy To be your husband. I thank you sir, I will rather wed a most perfidious redshank, A noted Jew, or some Mechanic slave, Then let him joy my sheets. A comes, 'a comes, Now my Virago, 'tis done, all's cocksure, I have a Priest will mumble up a marriage, Without bell, book, or candle, nimble slave, A honest Welshman that was a tailor, But now is made a Curate. Nay you're fitted. Now master Throat. Where's your spirit sister? What all amort? what's the matter? do you here? What's the reason of this melancholy? By heaven I know not. Has the gudgeon bit. He has been nibbling. Hold him to it wench, And it 'twill hit by heaven: why art so sad? Foot wench we will be married tonight, we'll sup at th'mitre, and from thence My brother and we three will to the Savoy, Which done, I tell thee girl, we'll hand over head, Go to't pell-mell for a maidenhead, Come yo'are lusty, you wenches are like bells, You give no music, till you feel the clapper, Come Throat a torch, we must be gone. Servant. Mistress. We are undone. Now Ioue forfend. This fellow has no land; and which is worse, He has no credit. How are we outstripped, Blown up by wit of man: Let us be gone Home again, home again, our market now is done. That were too great a scandal. Most true, Better to wed another then to return With scandal and defame; wed me a man Whose wealth may reconcile your mother's love, And make the action lawful. But where's the man? I like your council, could you show the man.
seed 43: T6 · seed 44: T7 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Why that's his occupation, hee will cheate In a cloake lin'd with Veluet, a will prate Faster then fiue Barbers and a Taylor, Lye faster then ten Citty occupiers, Or cunning tradesmen: goes a trust In euery Tauerne where has spent a fagot, Sweares loue to euery whore, squires bawdes, And takes vp houses for them as their husband. A is a man I loue, and haue done much To bring him to preferment. Is there no trust, No honesty in men. Faith some there is, And 'tis all in the hands of vs Lawyers And women, and those women which haue it, Keepe their honesty so close, that not one Amongst a hundred is perceiued to haue it. Good sir, may I not by law forsake him And wed another, though my word be past To be his wife. O questionlesse you may, You haue many Presidents and booke-cases for't, Nay, though you were married by a booke-case, Of Milesimo sexantesimo, &c. You may forsake your husband, and wed another, Prouided that some fault be in the husband, As none of them are cleare. I am resolu'd, I will not wed him, though I beg my bread. All that I haue is yours, and were I worthy To be your husband. I thanke you sir, I will rather wed a most persidious Redshanke, A noted Iewe, or some Mechanick slaue, Then let him ioy my sheets. A comes, a comes, Now my Virago, 'tis done, all's cock-sure, I haue a Priest will mumble vp a marriage, Without bell, booke, or candle, nimble slaue, A honest Welsh-man that was a Taylor, But now is made a Curate. Nay y'are fitted. Now maister Throte. Where's your spirit sister? What all amort? whats the matter? do you here? What's the reason of this melancholly? By heauen I know not. Has the gudgin bit. He has beene nibling. Hold him to it wench, And it 'twill hit by heauen: why art so sad? Foote wench we will be married to night, Weele sup at th'Myter, and from thence My brother and we three will to the Sauoy, Which done, I tell thee girle, weele hand ore head, Goe to't pell mell for a maiden-head, Come yo'are lusty, you wenches are like bells, You giue no musick, till you feele the clapper, Come Throte a tortch, we must be gon. Seruant. Mistris. We are vndone. Now Ioue forfend. This fellow has no land; and which is worse, Hee has no credit. How are we outstript, Blowne vp by wit of man: Let vs be gone Home againe, home againe, our market now is done. That were too great a scandall. Most true, Better to wed another then to returne With scandall and defame▪ wed me a man Whose wealth may reconcile your mothers loue, And make the action lawfull. But where's the man? I like your councell, could you show the man.