The Roaring Girl, or Moll Cutpurse · chunk 5 of 47
Dekker, Thomas / Middleton, Thomas · published 1611 · first performed or written 1611 (Annals) comedy · Prince Henry's Men · Fortune unassigned nearest T51 Parents and children: blessing, birthrig · 487 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T51: esau, iacob, father, son, isaac, god, love, birthright, parents, thing.
Fantastical, ha, ha. Yes, and talk oddly. Pray sir proceed, How did this old man end? marry sir thus. He left his wild fit to read over his cards, Yet then (though age cast snow on all his hairs) He joyed because (says he) the God of gold Has been to me no niggard: that disease (Of which all old men sicken) Avarice Never infected me. He means not himself i'm sure. For like a lamp, Fed with continual oil, I spend and throw My light to all that need it, yet have still Enough to serve myself, oh but (quoth he) Though heavens-dew fall, thus on this aged tree, I have a son that's like a wedge doth cleave, My very heart root, Had he such a son, Now I do smell a fox strongly. Let's see: no Master Greenwit is not yet So mellow in years as he; but as like Sebastian, Just like my son Sebastian,— such another. How finely like a fencer my father fetches his by-blows to hit me, but if I beat you not at your own weapon of subtlety. This son (saith he) that should be The column and main arch unto my house, The crutch unto my age, becomes a whirlwind Shaking the firm foundation, 'tis some prodigal. Well shot old Adam Bell. No city monster neither, no prodigal, But sparing, wary, civil, and (though wifeless) An excellent husband, and such a traveler, He has more tongues in his head then some have teeth, I have but two in mine So sparing and so wary, What then could vex his father so. Oh a woman. A flesh fly, that can vex any man. A scurvy woman, On whom the passionate old man swore he doted: A creature (saith he) nature hath brought forth To mock the sex of woman.— It is a thing One knows not how to name, her birth began Ere she was all made. 'tis woman more than man, Man more than woman, and (which to none can hap) The Sun gives her two shadows to one shape, Nay more, let this strange thing, walk, stand or sit, No blazing star draws more eyes after it. A Monster, 'tis some Monster. she's a varlet. Now is my cue to bristle. A naughty pack. 'tis false. Ha boy. 'tis false. What's false, I say she's nought. I say that tongue That dares speak so (but yours) sticks in the throat Of a rank villain, set yourself aside.— So sir what then. Any here else had lied. I think I shall fit you— Lie. Yes. Doth this concern him. Ah sirrah boy. Is your blood heated: boils it: are you stung, I'll pierce you deeper yet: oh my dear friends, I am that wretched father, this that son, That sees his ruin, yet headlong on doth run. Will you love such a poison. Fie, fie. You're all mad.
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)
Fantasticall, ha, ha. Yes, and talke odly. Pray sir proceed, How did this old man end? Mary sir thus. He left his wild fit to read ore his cards, Yet then (though age cast snow on all his haires) He ioy'd because (saies he) the God of gold Has beene to me no niggard: that disease (Of which all old men sicken) Auarice Neuer infected me. He meanes not himselfe i'me sure. For like a lamp, Fed with continuall oyle, I spend and throw My light to all that need it, yet haue still Enough to serue my selfe, oh but (quoth he) Tho heauens-dew fall, thus on this aged tree, I haue a sonne thats like a wedge doth cleaue, My very heart roote, Had he such a sonne, Now I do smell a fox strongly. Lets see: no Maister Greene-wit is not yet So mellow in yeares as he; but as like Sebastian, Iust like my sonne Sebastian,—such another. How finely like a fencer my father fetches hisby-blowes to hit me, but if I beate you not at your owne weapon of subtilty. This sonne (saith he) that should be The columne and maine arch vnto my house, The crutch vnto my age, becomes a whirlewind Shaking the firme foundation, Tis some prodigall. Well shot old Adam Bell. No citty monster neither, no prodigall, But sparing, wary, ciuill, and (tho wiuelesse) An excellent husband, and such a traueller, He has more tongues in his head then some haue teeth, I haue but two in myne So sparing and so wary, What then could vex his father so. Oh a woman. A flesh fly, that can vex any man. A scuruy woman, On whom the passionate old man swore he doated: A creature (saith he) nature hath brought forth To mocke the sex of woman.—It is a thing One knowes not how to name, her birth began Ere she was all made. Tis woman more then man, Man more then woman, and (which to none can hap) The Sunne giues her two shadowes to one shape, Nay more, let this strange thing, walke, stand or sit, No blazing starre drawes more eyes after it. A Monster, tis some Monster. Shee's a varlet. Now is my cue to bristle. A naughty packe. Tis false. Ha boy. Tis false. Whats false, I say shee's nought. I say that tongue That dares speake so (but yours) stickes in the throate Of a ranke villaine, set your selfe aside.— So sir what then. Any here else had lyed. I thinke I shall fit you— Lye. Yes. Doth this concerne him. Ah sirra boy. Is your bloud heated: boyles it: are you stung, Ile pierce you deeper yet: oh my deere friends, I am that wretched father, this that sonne, That sees his ruine, yet headlong on doth run. Will you loue such a poyson. Fye, fye. Y'are all mad.