If It Be Not Good, the Devil Is in It (If This Be Not a Good Play, the Devil Is in It) · chunk 41 of 44
Dekker, Thomas · published 1612 · first performed or written 1611 [1611-1612] (Annals) comedy · Queen Anne's Men · Red Bull T26 Devils, hell and fiends typicality 0.69 · 499 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T26: devil, hell, devils, sure, soul, fiend, sr, wife, lord, men.
Fetch whips of poisoned steel, strung with gloving wires. And lash these saucy hellhounds: duck their souls, Nine times toth' bottom of our brimstone lakes, From whence up pull them by their singed hair, Then hang'em in ropes of ice nine times frozen o'er: Are they scarce hot in hell, and must they roar? What holiday's this? that here's such grinning, ha! Is hell a dancing School? you're in extremes, Snoring, or else horn-mad? who are set on shore, On this vast land of horror, that it resounds, With laughter stead of shrieks, who are come to our bounds? ha! Dread Lord of this lower tortary, to thy jail Have we thy busy catchpoles (prisoners) brought Souls, for whose coming all hell long hath sought. Their names: Is Ward and Dantziker then come? Yes: Dantziker is come. Where's the dutch Schellum? where's hell's factor 〈◊〉? Charon has bound him for a thousand years, To tug at's oar: he scoured the Seas so well, Charon will make him ferry-man of hell. Where's Ward? The Merchants are not piled nor pulled enough, They are yet but shaven, when they are flayed, he'll come. And bring to hell fat booties of rich thieves, A crew of swearers and drinkers the best that lives. Ward is not ripe for damning yet. Who is it then? Cutlar the Sergeant: ha! he come. Yes Pluto: Cutlar has been here long, sent in by a carman, But his stern looks the fiends did so displease, Bound hand and foot, he howls in little ease, Having only mace to comfort him: he does yell, And rave, because he cannot rest in hell. 'tis not for him, that we this holiday hold. The bawd of Shoreditch, Is that hellcat come? No: but she's been a long time launching forth, In a rosa-solis-bark. devils! who is it then? Mall Cutpurse is she come? Our cozen come? No. 'tis not yet fit Mall Cutpurse here should howl, She has been too late a sore-tormented soul. Where is our daughter? ha? Is she idle? No. She was beating hemp in bridewell to choke thieves, Therefore to spare this she ramp she beseeches, Till like herself all women wear the breeches. Mall Cutpurse plies her task and cannot come. For whom then is this wild Shrove-tuesday kept? See King of gloomy shades what souls resort, To this thy most just, and least-fying court. Stay, since our jail is with brave-fellows stored, Bid Charon that no more yet come aboard. Seeing our judges of hell here likewise are Sat: call a session's: set the souls to a bar. Minos (the just:) Rhadamanth (the temperate.) And Aeacus (the severe,) each take his state. Not an officer here? A Fury. Make an Oyes? Oyes! All manner of souls, if they love their own quietness, keep out of hell, unless they have horrible business at this infernal sessions, upon pain of being damnably plagued for their lustiness. Back there, let those shackled rakehells show their faces.
nodes 2443–2504 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 41 of 44 in this edition
Length
499 words · 728 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T26 — Devils, hell and fiendscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.687 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T23 · seed 44: T23 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Fetch whippes of poysoned steele, strung with glouing wires. And lash these saucie hell-hounds: ducke their soules, Nine times tot'n bottome of our brimstone lakes, From whence vp pull them by their sindged hayre, Then hang'em in ropes of yce nine times frozen o're: Are they scarce hot in hell, and must they roare? What holliday's this? that heres such grinning, ha! Is hell a dancing Schoole? yare in extreames, Snoring, or els horne-mad? who are set on shore, On this vast land of horror, that it resounds, With laughter stead of shrikes, who are come to our bounds? ha! Dread Lord of this lower tortary, to thy Iayle Haue we thy busie Catch-polls (prisoners) brought Soules, for whose comming all hell long hath sought. Their names: Is Ward and Dantziker then come? Yes: Daziker is come. Wheres the dutch Schellum? wheres hells factor ? Caron has bound him for a thousand yeeres, To tug ats oare: he scourd the Seas so well, Charon will make him ferriman of hell. Where's Ward? The Merchants are not pilld nor pulld enough, They are yet but shauen, when they are fleade, hee'le come. And bring to hell fat booties of rich theeues, A crew of swearers and drinkers the best that liues. Ward is not ripe for damming yet. Who is it then? Cutlar the Serieant: ha! he come. Yes Pluto: Cutlar has bin here long, sent in by a carman, But his sterne lookes the feindes did so displease, Bound hand and foote, he houles in little ease, Hauing onely mace to comfort him: he does yell, And raue, because he cannot rest in hell. Tis not for him, that we this holliday hold. The baude of Shorditch, Is that helleat come? No: but sha's bin a long time lanching forch, In a Rosa-solis-barke. Diuells! who is it then? Mall Cutpurse is she come? Our cosen come? No. Tis not yet fit Mall Cutpurse here should houle, Shee has bin too late a sore-tormented soule. Where is our daughter? ha? Is shee ydle? No. Shee was beating hemp in bridewell to choke theeues, Therefore to spare this shee ramp she beseeches, Till like her selfe all women weare the breeches. Mall Cutpurse plyes her taske and cannot come. For whom then s this wilde Shroue-tuesday kept? See King of gloomie shades what soules resort, To this thy most iust, and least-fying court. Stay, since our Iayle is with braue-fellowes storde, Bid Charon that no more yet come aboard. Seeing our Iudges of hell here likewise are Sit: call a Sessions: set the soules to a barre. Minos (the iust:) Rhadamanth (the temperate.) And Aeacus (the seuere,) each take his state. Not an officer here? A Fury. Make an Oyes? Oyes! All manner of soules, if they loue their owne quietnes, keepe out of hell, vnlesse they haue horrible businesse at this infernall sessions, ypon paine of being damnably plagude for their lustines. Back there, let those shackeld rakehels shew their faces.