Englishmen for My Money, or A Woman Will Have Her Will · chunk 33 of 43
Haughton, William · published 1616 · first performed or written 1598 [Feb 18-May 9, payment] (Annals) comedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 478 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
ay, well said Mouche, now I see thy love, And thou shalt see mine, one day if I live. None but my daughter's sir, hangs for your tooth: I'd rather see them hanged first, ere you get them. Master Pisaro, hear a dead man speak, Who sings the woeful accents of his end. I do confess I love; then let not love Prove the sad engine of my lives remove: Marina's rich Possession was my bliss? Then in her loss, all joy eclipsed is: As every Plant takes virtue of the Sun; So from her Eyes, this life and being sprung: But now debarred of those clear shining Rays, Death for Earth gapes, and Earth to Death obeys: Each word thou spak'st, (oh speak not so again) Bore Deaths true image on the Word engraven; Which as it flew mixed with heavens airy breath, Summoned the dreadful Sessions of my death: I leave thee to thy wish, and may th'event Prove equal to thy hope and hearts content. Marina to that hap, that happiest is; My Body to the Grave, my Soul to bliss. Have I done well? Excellent well in troth. ay, go; ay, go: your words move me as much, As doth a Stone being cast against the air. But soft, What Light is that? What Folks be those? Oh 'tis Alvaro & his other Friends, I'll down & let them in. Where are we now gaffer Buttericke? Why know you not Croched-friers, where be your wits? Wat be tis Crosh-viers? vidite padre dare; tack you dat, me fall trouble you no far. I thank you Gentlemen, good night: Good night Frisco. Farewell Buttericke, what a Clown it is: Come on my masters merrily, I'll knock at the door. Who's there, our three wise wooers, Blockhead our man? had he not been, They might have hanged themselves, For any Wenches they had hit upon: Good morrow, or good den, I know not whether. Monsieur de Mowche, wat macke you out de Houis so late? What, what, young men & sluggards fie for shame You trifle time at home about vain toys, Whilst others in the mean time, steal your Brides: I tell you sir, the English Gentlemen Had well-nigh mated you, and me, and all; The Doors were open, and the Girls abroad, Their Sweethearts ready to receive them to: And gone forsooth they had been, had not I (I think by revelation) stopped their flight: But I have cooped them up, and so will keep them. But sirrah Frisco, where's the man I sent for? Whose Cloak have you got there? How now, where's Vandal? Forsooth he is not here: Master Mendall you mean, do you not? Why loggerhead, him I sent for, where is he? Where hast thou been? How hast thou spent thy time? Did I not send thee to my Son Vandal?
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I, well ſaid Mouche, now I ſee thy loue, And thou ſhalt ſee mine, one day if I liue. None but my Daughters ſir, hanges for your tooth: I'de rather ſee them hang'd firſt, ere you get them. Maiſter Piſaro, heare a dead man ſpeake, Who ſinges the wofull accents of his end. I doe confeſſe I loue; then let not loue Proue the ſad engine of my liues remooue: Marinaes rich Poſſeſsion was my bliſſe? Then in her loſſe, all ioy eclipſed is: As euery Plant takes vertue of the Sunne; So from her Eyes, this life and beeing ſprung: But now debard of thoſe cleare ſhyning Rayes, Death for Earth gapes, and Earth to Death obeyes: Each word thou ſpakſt, (oh ſpeake not ſo againe) Bore Deaths true image on the Word ingrauen; Which as it flue mixt with Heauens ayerie breath, Summond the dreadfull Seſsions of my death: I leaue thee to thy wiſh, and may th'euent Prooue equall to thy hope and hearts content. Marina to that hap, that happieſt is; My Body to the Graue, my Soule to bliſſe. Haue I done well? Excellent well in troth. I, goe; I, goe: your words moue me as much, As doth a Stone being caſt againſt the ayre. But ſoft, What Light is that? What Folkes be thoſe? Oh tis Aluaro & his other Friends, Ile downe & let them in. Where are we now gaffer Buttericke? Why know you not Croched-friers, where be your wits? Wat be tis Croſh-viers? vidite padre dare; tacke you dat, me fal troble you no farre. I thanke you Gentlemen, good night: Good night Friſco. Farewell Buttericke, what a Clowne it is: Come on my maiſters merrily, Ile knocke at the dore. Who's theere, our three wiſe Woers, Blockhead our man? had he not been, They might haue hanged them ſelues, For any Wenches they had hit vpon: Good morrow, or good den, I know not whether. Monſieur de Mowche, wat macke you out de Houis ſo late? What, what, young men & ſluggards fy for ſhame You trifle time at home about vaine toyes, Whilſt others in the meane time, ſteale your Brides: I tell you ſir, the Engliſh Gentlemen Had wel-ny mated you, and mee, and all; The Dores were open, and the Girles abroad, Their Sweet-hearts ready to receiue them to: And gone forſooth they had been, had not I (I thinke by reuelation) ſtopt their flight: But I haue coopt them vp, and ſo will keepe them. But ſirra Friſco, where's the man I ſent for? VVhoſe Cloake haue you got there? How now, where's Ʋandalle? For-ſooth he is not heere: Maiſter Mendall you meane, doe you not? VVhy logerhead, him I ſent for, where is he? VVhere haſt thou been? How haſt thou ſpent thy time? Did I not ſend thee to my Sonne Vandalle?