Beaumont, Francis · published 1613 · first performed or written 1607 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Queen's Revels T8 Captains, gallants and cheats typicality 0.75 · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T8: captain, master, money, gentleman, little, lieutenant, rogue, pray, minos, honest.
Rafe I would have thee call all the youths together in battle-ray, with drums, and guns, and flags, and march to Mile end in pompous fashion, and there exhort your Soldiers to be merry and wise, and to keep their beards from burning Rafe, and then skirmish, and let your flags fly, and cry kill, kill, kill: my husband shall lend you his jerkin Rafe, and there's a scarf; for the rest, the house shall furnish you, and we'll pay for't: do it bravely Rafe, and think before whom you perform, and what person you represent. I warrant you mistress if I do it not for the honour of the City, and the credit of my master, let me never hope for freedom. 'Tis well spoken i'faith; go thy ways, thou art a spark indeed. Rafe, Rafe, double your files bravely Rafe. I warrant you sir. Let him look narrowly to his service, I shall take him else, I was there myself a pikeman once in the hottest of the day, wench; had my feather shot sheer away, the fringe of my pike burnt off with powder, my pate broken with a scouring-stick, and yet I thank God I am here. Hark George the drums. Ran, tan, tan, tan; ran, tan: O wench an thou hadst but seen little Ned of Algate, drum Ned, how he made it roar again, and laid on like a tyrant: and then stroke softly till the ward came up, and then thundered again, and together we go: sa, sa, sa, bounce quoth the guns: courage my hearts, quoth the Captains: Saint George, quoth the pikemen; and withal here they lay, and there they lay: And yet for all this I am here wench. Be thankful for it George, for indeed 'tis wonderful. March fair my hearts, Lieutenant beat the rear up: Ancient, let your colours fly; but have a great care of the butcher's hooks at Whitechapel, they have been the death of many a fair Ancient. Open your files that I may take a view both of your persons and munition: Sergeant call a muster. A stand, William Hamerton pewterer. Here Captain. A corselet, and a spanish pike; 'tis well, can you shake it with a terror? I hope so Captain. Charge upon me, 'tis with the weakest: put more strength William Hammerton, more strength: as you were again. Proceed Sergeant. George Green-goose, Poulterer? Here. Let me see your piece neighbour Green-goose, when was she shot in? And like you master Captain, I made a shot even now, partly to scour her, and partly for audacity. It should seem so certainly, for her breath is yet inflamed: beside, there is a main fault in the touchhole, it runs, and stinketh; and I tell you moreover, and believe it: Ten such touch-holes would breed the pox in the Army. Get you a feather, neighbour, get you a feather, sweet oil, and paper, and your piece may do well enough yet. Where's your powder? Here.
nodes 1612–1632 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 38 of 42 in this edition
Length
500 words · 689 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T8 — Captains, gallants and cheatscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.749 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T11 · seed 44: T14 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Rafe I would haue thee call all the youthes together in battle-ray, with drums, and guns, and flags, and march to Mile end in pompous fashion, and there exhort your Souldiers to be merry and wise, and to keepe their beards from burning Rafe, and then skirmish, and let your flagges flye, and cry kill, kill, kill: my husband shall lend you his Ierkin Rafe, and there's a scarfe; for the rest, the house shall furnish you, and wee'l pay for't: doe it brauely Rafe, and thinke before whom you performe, and what person you represent. I warrant you mistresse if I do it not for the honour of the Citty, and the credit of my maister, let me neuer hope for freedome. 'Tis well spoken I faith; go thy wayes, thou art a sparke indeed. Rafe, Rafe, double your files brauely Rafe. I warrant you sir. Let him looke narrowly to his seruice, I shall take him else, I was there my selfe a pike-man once in the hottest of the day, wench; had my feather shot sheere away, the fringe of my pike burnt off with powder, my pate broken with a scouring-sticke, and yet I thanke God I am heere. Harke George the drums. Ran, tan, tan, tan; ran, tan: O wench an thou hadst but seene little Ned of Algate, drum Ned, how hee made it rore againe, and layd on like a tyrant: and then stroke softly till the ward came vp, and then thundred againe, and together we go: sa, sa, sa, bounce quoth the guns: courage my hearts, quoth the Captaines: Saint George, quoth the pikemen; and withall here they lay, and there they lay: And yet for all this I am heere wench. Be thankfull for it George, for indeed 'tis wonderfull. March faire my hearts, Lieuetenant beate the reare vp: Ancient, let your colours flye; but haue a great care of the Butchers hookes at white-Chappell, they haue beene the death of many a faire Ancient. Open your files that I may take a view both of your persons and munition: Sergeant call a muster. A stand, William Hamerton peuterer. Here Captaine. A Corslet, and a spanish pike; 'tis well, can you shake it with a terror? I hope so Captaine. Charge vpon me, 'tis with the weakest: put more strength William Hammerton, more strength: as you were againe. Proceed Sergeant. George Greene-goose, Poulterer? Heere. Let me see your peece neighbour Greene-goose, when was she shot in? And like you maister Captaine, I made a shot euen now, partly to scoure her, and partly for audacity. It should seeme so certainely, for her breath is yet inflamed: besides, there is a maine fault in the touch-hole, it runnes, and stinketh; and I tell you moreouer, and beleeue it: Ten such touch-holes would breed the pox in the Army. Get you a feather, neighbour, get you a feather, sweet oyle, and paper, and your peece may do well enough yet. Where's your powder? Heere.