Field, Nathan · published 1612 · first performed or written 1609 [1609-1610] (Annals) comedy · Children of the Queens Revels (Children of the Whitefriars) (?) · before the Court unassigned nearest T28 Marriage-making: weddings, brides and ma · 503 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T28: married, marriage, wedding, day, bride, father, wife, luce, love, husband.
Good morrow my thrice honoured & heroic Lord. Good morrow your Lord and Master you might say, for brevity sake. Thou'st a good tailor, and art very fine. I thank your Lordship. I you may thank his Lordship indeed. fore-god this Doublet sits in print my Lord. And the Hose excellent; the piccadill rare. he'll praise himself in trust with my Lord's tailor, For the next S. George's suit. Oh, Good-morrow Tailor, I abhor bills in a Morning. Your Honour says true; their Knavery will be discerned by daylight, But thou mayst watch at night with bill in hand, And no man dares find fault with it. A good jest Efaith, Good-morrow to your Lordship, a very good jest. I wonder my invited guests are so tardy, What's o'clock. Scarce seven my Lord. And what news Pendant? What think'st thou of my present marriage? How shows the Beauty to thee I shall wed? Why to all women, like Diana among her nymphs. There's all his reading. A beauty of that pureness and delight, That none is worthy of her but my Lord, My Honourable Lord. But then her fortune Matched with her beauty, makers her up a match. By Heaven unmatchable, for none fit but Lords, And yet for no Lord fit, but my good Lord. And that her Sister then should love me to, Is it not strange? Strange: No, not strange at all, By Cupid, there's no woman in the world But must needs love you, dote, go mad for you; If you vouchsafe reflection; 'tis a thing That does it home: thus much reflection Catches 'em up by Dozens, like wild foul. Now ye shall taste the means by which he eats. Nature herself having made you, fell sick In love with her own work, and can no more Make man so lovely, being diseased with love. You are the world's Minion, of a little man; I'll say no more, I would not be a woman, For all has been got by them. Why man, why? Heart, I should follow you like a young rank whore, That runs proud for her love, pluck you by th' sleeve, Who ere were with you, in the open street, With the impudence of a drunken Oyster-wife, Put on my fighting waistcoat, and the Ruff That fears no tearing, batter down the windows Where I suspected you might lie all night, Scratch faces, like a wildcat of Pickt-hatch. Pendant thou'lt make me dote upon myself, Narcissus by this hand, had far less cause. How know'st thou that? They were all one my Lord. How do I know, I speak my Conscience. His beauties were but shadows to my Lord, Why Boy his presence would enkindle sin, And longing thoughts in a devoted Nun: Oh foot, Oh Leg, oh Hand, oh body, face, By Ioue it is a little man of wax. thouart a rare Rascal; 'tis not for nothing That men call thee my Commendations. For nothing, no, he would be loath it should.
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)
Good morrow my thrice honor'd & heroick Lord. Good morrow your Lord and Maister you might say, for breuitie sake. Thou'ast a good Taylor, and art verie fine. I thanke your Lordship. I you may thanke his Lordship indeed. Foregod this Dublet sits in print my Lord. And the Hose excellent; the Pickadell rare. Heele praise himselfe in trust with my Lords taylor, For the next S. Georges sute. Oh, Good-morrow Taylour, I abhorre billes in a Morning. Your Honor sayes true; their Knauerie will be discern'd by day-light, But thou maist watch at night with bill in hand, And no man dares finde fault with it. A good iest Efaith, Good-morrow to your Lordship, a verie good iest. I wonder my inuited guests are so tardie, What's a clocke. Scarse seauen my Lord. And what newes Pendant? What think'st thou of my present marriage? How shewes the Beautie to thee I shall wed? Why to all women, like Diana among hir Nimphs. There's all his reading. A beautie of that purenesse and delight, That none is worthy of her but my Lord, My Honorable Lord. But then her fortune Matcht with her beautie, makers her vp a match. By Heauen vnmatcheable, for none fit but Lords, And yet for no Lord fit, but my good Lord. And that her Sister then should loue me to, Is it not strange? Strange: No, not strange at all, By Cupid, there's no woman in the world But must needs loue you, doate, go madde for you; If you vouchsafe reflection; Tis a thing That does it home: thus much reflection Catches em vp by Dozens, like wilde foule. Now ye shall tast the meanes by which he eates. Nature her selfe hauing made you, fell sicke In loue with her owne worke, and can no more Make man so louelie, being diseasd with loue. You are the worlds Minion, of a little man; Ile say no more, I would not be a woman, For all has beene got by them. Why man, why? Hart, I should follow you like a yong rank whore, That runs proud for her loue, plucke you by 'th sleeue, Who ere were with you, in the open streete, With the impudence of a drunken Oyster-wise, Put on my fighting wastcoate, and the Ruffe That feares no tearing, batter downe the windowes VVwhere I suspected you might lie all night, Scratch faces, like a VVilde-Cat of Pict-hatch. Pendant thou't make me dote vpon my selfe, Narcissus by this hand, had farre lesse cause. How knowst thou that? They were all one my Lord. How do I know, I speake my Conscience. His beauties were but shaddowes to my Lord, VVhy Boy his presence would enkindle sin, And longing thoughts in a deuoted Nun: Oh foote, Oh Legge, oh Hand, oh body, face, By Ioue it is a little man of wax. Th'art a rare Rascall; Tis not for nothing That men call thee my Commendations. For nothing, no, he would be loath it should.