Jonson, Ben · published 1620 · first performed or written 1609 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Queen's Revels T49 Wooing a mistress: suitors, go-betweens typicality 0.82 · 514 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T49: mistress, gentleman, love, lady, woman, pray, gentlewoman, hear, honest, way.
Nay faith, in this, Sir, she speaks but reason: and methinks is more continent than you. Would you go to bed so presently, Sir, afore noon? a man of your head, and hair, should owe more to that reverend Ceremony, and not mount the Marriage-bed, like a town-bull, or a mountain-goat; but stay the due season; and ascend it then with Religion, and fear. Those delights are to be steeped in the humour, and silence of the night; and give the day to other open pleasures, and jollities of Feast, of Music, of Revels, of Discourse: we'll have all, Sir, that may make your Hymen high, and happy. O, my torment, my torment! Nay, if you endure the first half hour, Sir, so tediously, and with this irksomeness; what comfort, or hope, can this fair Gentlewoman make to herself hereafter, in the consideration of so many years as are to come— Of my affliction. Good Sir, depart, and let her do it alone. I have done, Sir. That cursed Barber! (Yes faith, a cursed Wretch indeed, Sir.) I have married his Cittern, that's common to all men. Some plague above the plague— (All Egypt's ten Plagues) Revenge me on him. 'Tis very well, Sir. If you laid on a curse or two, more, I'll assure you he'll bear 'em. As, that he may get the Pox with seeking to cure it, Sir? Or, that while he is curling another man's hair, his own may drop off? Or, for burning some male-bawd's Lock, he may have his brain beat out with the Curling-Iron? No, let the Wretch live wretched. May he get the Itch, and his Shop so lousy, as no man dare come at him, nor he come at no man. (ay, and if he would swallow all his Balls for Pills, let not them purge him) Let his Warming-Pan be ever cold. (A perpetual Frost underneath it, Sir) Let him never hope to see fire again. (But in Hell, Sir) His Chairs be always empty, his Scissors rust, and his combs mould in their Cases. Very dreadful that! (And may he lose the invention, Sir, of carving Lanterns in Paper) Let there be no bawd carted that year, to employ a Basin of his: but let him be glad to eat his Sponge, for Bread. And drink lotium to it, and much good do him. Or, for want of Bread— Eat Earwax, Sir. I'll help you. Or draw his own Teeth, and add them to the Lutestring. No, beat the old ones to powder, and make Bread of them. (Yes, make meal o' the Millstones.) May all the Botches, and Burns, that he has cured on others, break out upon him. And he now forget the cure of 'em in himself, Sir: or, if he do remember it, let him ha' scraped all his Linen into Lint for't, and have not a rag left him, to set up with. That falls out often, madam, that he that thinks himself the Master-wit, is the Master-fool. I assure your Ladyship, ye cannot laugh at her.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 492–519 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 24 of 52 in this edition
Length
514 words · 726 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T49 — Wooing a mistress: suitors, go-betweens and letterscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.818 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
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)
Nay faith, in this, Sir, ſhee ſpeakes but reaſon: and me thinkes is more continent then you. Would you goe to bed ſo preſently, Sir, afore noone? a man of your head, and haire, ſhould owe more to that reuerend Ceremony, and not mount the Marriage-bed, like a Towne-Bull, or a Mountayne-Goate; but ſtay the due ſeaſon; and aſcend it then with Religion, and feare. Thoſe delights are to bee ſtēep'd in the humor, and ſilence of the night; and giue the day to other open pleaſures, and iollities of Feaſt, of Mufique, of Reuels, of Diſcourſe: wee'll haue all, Sir, that may make your Hymen high, and happy. O, my torment, my torment! Nay, if you indure the firſt halfe houre, Sir, ſo tediouſly, and with this irkſomneſſe; what comfort, or hope, can this faire Geutlewoman make to her ſelfe hereafter, in the conſideration of ſo many yeeres as are to come— Of my affliction. Good Sir, depart, and let her doe it alone. I haue done, Sir. That curſed Barber! (Yes faith, a curſed Wretch indeed, Sir.) I haue marryed his Citterne, that's common to all men. Some plague aboue the plague— (All Egypts ten Plagues) Reuenge me on him. 'Tis very well, Sir. If you laid on a curſe or two, more, I'll aſſure you hee'll beare 'hem. As, that hee may get the Poxe with ſeeking to cure it, Sir? Or, that while he is curling another mans haire, his owne may drop off? Or, for burning ſome Male-baudes Locke, he may haue his braine beat out with the Curling-Iron? No, let the Wretch liue wretched. May hee get the Itch, and his Shop ſo louſie, as no man dare come at him, nor he come at no man. (I, and if he would ſwallow all his Balles for Pils, let not them purge him) Let his Warming-Pan be euer cold. (A perpetuall Froſt vnderneath it, Sir) Let him neuer hope to ſee fire againe. (But in Hell, Sir) His Chayres bee alwayes empty, his Sciſſors ruſt, and his Combes mould in their Caſes. Very dreadfull that! (And may he looſe the inuention, Sir, of caruing Lanternes in Paper) Let there bee no Baud carted that yeere, to employ a Baſon of his: but let him be glad to eate his Sponge, for Bread. And drinke lotium to it, and much good doe him. Or, for want of Bread— Eate Eare-Waxe, Sir. I'll helpe you. Or draw'his owne Teeth, and adde them to the Lute-ſtring. No, beate the olde ones to poulder, and make Bread of them. (Yes, make meale o' the Milſtones.) May all the Botches, and Burnes, that he has cur'd on others, breake out vpon him. And he now forget the cure of 'hem in himſelfe, Sir: or, if hee doe remember it, let him ha' ſcrap'd all his Linnen into Lint for't, and haue not a ragge left him, to ſet vp with. That falls out often, Madame, that hee that thinkes himſelfe the Maſter-wit, is the Maſter-foole. I aſſure your Ladiſhip, ye cannot laugh at her.