Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 502 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
So, sir! When all your alchemy, and your algebra, Your minerals, vegetals, and animals, Your conjuring, cozening, and your dozen of trades, Could not relieve your corpse, with so much linen Would make you tinder, but to see a fire; I ga'you countenance, credit for your coals, Your stills, your glasses, your materials, Built you a furnace, drew you customers, Advanced all your black arts; lent you, beside, A house to practise in— Your master's house? Where you have studied the more thriving skill Of bawdry, since. Yes, in your master's house. You, and the rats, here, kept possession. Make it not strange. I know, yo' were one, could keep The buttery-hatch still locked, and save the chippings, Sell the dole-beer to aqua-vitae-men, The which, together with your christmas veils, At post and pair, your letting out of counters, Made you a pretty stock, some twenty marks, And gave you credit, to converse with cobwebs, Here, since your mistress death hath broke up house. You might talk softlier, rascal. No, you scarab, I'll thunder you, in pieces. I will teach you How to beware, to tempt a fury again That carries tempest in his hand, and voice. The place has made you valiant. No, your clothes. Thou vermin, have I ta'en thee, out of dung, So poor, so wretched, when no living thing Would keep thee company, but a spider, or worse? Raised thee from brooms, and dust, and watering pots? Sublimed thee, and exalted thee, and fixed thee I' the third region, called our state of grace? Wrought thee to spirit, to quintessence, with pains Would twice have won me the philosopher's work? Put thee in words, and fashion? made thee fit For more than ordinary fellowships? Given thee thy oaths, thy quarreling dimensions? Thy rules, to cheat at horse-race, cockpit, cards, Dice, or what ever gallant tincture, else? Made thee a second, in mine own great art? And have I this for thank? Do you rebel? Do you fly out, i' the projection? Would you be gone, now? Gentlemen, what mean you? Will you mar all? Slave, thou hadst had no name— Will you undo yourselves, with civil war? Never been known, past equi clibanum, The heat of horse-dung, under ground, in cellars, Or an alehouse, darker than deaf IOHN's: been lost To all mankind, but laundresses, and tapsters, Had not I been. doyou know who hears you, Sovereign? Sirrah— Nay, General, I thought you were civil— I shall turn desperate, if you grow thus loud. And hang thyself, I care not. Hang thee, collier, And all thy pots, and pans, in picture I will, Since thou hast moved me.— (O, this'll o'erthrow all.) Write thee up bawd, in Paul's; have all thy tricks Of cozening with a hollow coal, dust, scrape, Searching for things lost, with a siue, and shears, Erecting figures, in your rows of houses, And taking in of shadows, with a glass, Told in red letters: And a face, cut for thee, Worse than GAMALIEL RATSEY'S.
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)
So, sir! When all your alchemy, and your algebra, Your mineralls, vegetalls, and animalls, Your coniuring, cosning, and your dosen of trades, Could not relieue your corps, with so much linnen Would make you tinder, but to see a fire; I ga'you count'nance, credit for your coales, Your stills, your glasses, your materialls, Built you a fornace, drew you customers, Aduanc'd all your black arts; lent you, beside, A house to practise in— Your masters house? Where you haue studied the more thriuing skill Of bawdrie, since. Yes, in your masters house. You, and the rats, here, kept possession. Make it not strange. I know, yo' were one, could keepe The buttry-hatch still lock'd, and saue the chippings, Sell the dole-beere to aqua-vitae-men, The which, together with your christ-masse vailes, At post and paire, your letting out of counters, Made you a pretty stock, some twentie markes, And gaue you credit, to conuerse with cob-webs, Here, since your mistris death hath broke vp house. You might talke softlier, raskall. No, you scarabe, I'll thunder you, in peeces. I will teach you How to beware, to tempt a furie againe That carries tempest in his hand, and voice. The place has made you valiant. No, your clothes. Thou vermine, haue I tane thee, out of dung, So poore, so wretched, when no liuing thing Would keepe thee companie, but a spider, or worse? Rais'd thee from broomes, and dust, and watring pots? Sublim'd thee, and exalted thee, and fix'd thee I' the third region, call'd our state of grace? Wrought thee to ſpirit, to quinteſſence, with paines Would twiſe haue won me the philoſophers worke? Put thee in words, and faſhion? made thee fit For more then ordinarie fellowſhips? Giu'n thee thy othes, thy quarrelling dimenſions? Thy rules, to cheat at horſe-race, cock-pit, cardes, Dice, or what euer gallant tincture, elſe? Made thee a ſecond, in mine owne great art? And haue I this for thanke? Doe you rebell? Doe you flie out, i' the proiection? Would you be gone, now? Gentlemen, what meane you? Will you marre all? Slaue, thou hadſt had no name — Will you vn-doe your ſelues, with ciuill warre? Neuer beene knowne, paſt equi clibanum, The heat of horſe-dung, vnder ground, in cellars, Or an ale-houſe, darker then deafe IOHN's: beene loſt To all mankind, but laundreſſes, and tapſters, Had not I beene. Do'you know who heares you, Soueraigne? Sirrah— Nay, Generall, I thought you were ciuill— I ſhall turne deſperate, if you grow thus lowd. And hang thy ſelfe, I care not. Hang thee, colliar, And all thy pots, and pans, in picture I will, Since thou haſt mou'd me. — (O, this'll ore-throw all.) Write thee vp bawd, in Paules; haue all thy tricks Of coſning with a hollow cole, duſt, ſcrapings, Searching for things loſt, with a ſiue, and ſheeres, Erecting figures, in your rowes of houſes, And taking in of ſhaddowes, with a glaſſe, Told in red letters: And a face, cut for thee, Worſe then GAMALIEL RATSEY'S.