S., S. · published 1616 · first performed or written 1615 [c.1614-1615] (Annals) comedy · Queen Anne's Men T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.70 · 468 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
How old are you, fair sister? Not sixteen. About some six and forty. Oh you Witch— Aunt, she lies eight and twenty, at least Hark ye sister,— Please this old Hag, make her believe you're right, And answerable to her Stygian spells: Or I will bear thee to an Army, and there Ha' thy sod flesh sold, lent; and prostituted, And myself Cuckolded forty times a day. Leave this forced soberness— Aunt, will you hear her speak? I can skip lighter than the wanton do, And jerk it through the Dale, I cannot hold, neither my tongue, nor heels, (Nor nails from scratching out a lecher's eyes) Sure, I am composed most of the nimbler elements: But little water in me, far less earth, some air, To keep me humid, mutable, and tender, And apt for convolution: but their mixture Is scarce discernible, th' are so dispersed. For my predominant quality is all fire, Pure, radiant, subtle fire. I have oft seen a couple of light heels Carry a sober head: a woman's tongue Read lectures of civility; her face A printed book, each dimple a sweet line, That doth to good the Readers eye incline, Never till now a body forced to do, What the poor mind loathes to consent unto. She danceth weeping, laughs and sighs in pain. So I have seen (methinks) Sunshine in rain. Enough, I long to employ her. Cousin, here's the money. She's mine. What's your name? Florence. Florence. I like the name well. It's a good lucky name to make a whore on. You'll stay with me, Florence. Till you are weary of me. I'll but take leave of my brother, and follow you. What with me? Am I not worthy of one kiss? There— now be gone. Be gone? Death could not speak a word more fatal. Yet one more— so now farewell— Unjust— unkind— my woe-divining heart. By this we first embraced, by this we part. I am a villain, but she makes me weep. Why do I think she's false? I never saw't. Tut, all bells ring that tune. It is too true. I told her that this fifty pound should carry me to the wars; But I have a battle to fight ere I go. Old Gripe that has the mortgage of my lands, Lies sick of the Gout, and seldom stirs abroad. Some of that race I'll kill, or leave my own life In pawn I would have done 't. I ha' challenged Benjamin Gripe the son, whom the world calls The Honest Lawyer. He comes. You're the son of a villain. If I were, I could not help it. Thyselfe's a villain. It's a rank lie. Lie? Thou exasperat'st One mad already, that would have hazard heaven To make this earth drunk with thy blood.
seed 43: T0 · seed 44: T0 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
How old are you, faire ſiſter? Not ſixteene. About ſome ſixe and fortie. Oh you Witch—Aunt, ſhe lies eight and twentie, at leaſt Harke ye ſiſter,— Pleaſe this old Hagge, make her beleeue y' are right, And anſwerable to her Stygian ſpels: Or I will beare thee to an Armie, and there Ha'thy ſod fleſh ſold, lent; and preſtituted, And my ſelfe Cuckolded fortie times a day. Leaue this forc'd ſo berneſſe—Aunt, will you heare her ſpeake? I can skippe lighter then the wanton Doe, And ierke it through the Dale, I cannot hold, neither my tongue, nor heeles, (Nor nailes from ſcratching out a Leachers eyes) Sure, I am compoſd moſt of the nimbler elements: But little water in me, farre leſſe earth, ſome aire, To keepe me humid, mutable, and tender, And apt for conuolution: but their mixture Is ſcarce diſcernible, th' are ſo diſpers'd. For my predominant qualitie is all fire, Pure, radiant, ſubtle fire. I haue oft ſeene a couple of light heeles Carry a ſober head: a womans tongue Reade lectures of ciuilitie; her face A printed booke, each dimple a ſweet line, That doth to good the Readers eye incline, Neuer till now a body forc'd to doe, What the poore mind loaths to conſent vnto. She danceth weeping, laughes and ſighes in paine. So I haue ſeene (me thinkes) Sun-ſhine in raine. Enough, I long to imploy her. Couſin, heres the mony. She's mine. Whats your name? Florence. Florence. I like the name well. Its a good lucky name to make a whore on. You'l ſtay with me, Florence. Till you are weary of me. Ile but take leaue of my brother, and follow you. What with me? Am I not worthy of one kiſſe? There—now be gone. Be gone? Death could not ſpeake a word more fatall. Yet one more—ſo now farewell— Vniuſt—vnkind—my woe-diuining heart. By this we firſt embrac'd, by this we part. I am a villaine, but ſhe makes me weepe. Why doe I thinke ſhe's falſe? I neuer ſaw't. Tut, all bels ring that tune. It is too true. I told her that this fiftie pound ſhould carry me to the warres; But I haue a battle to fight ere I goe. Old Gripe that has the morgage of my lands, Lies ſicke of the Goute, and ſeldome ſtirres abroad. Some of that race Ile kill, or leaue my owne life In pawne I would haue done 't. I ha' chalenged Beniamin Gripe the ſonne, whom the world cals The Honeſt Lawyer. He comes. Y'are the ſonne of a villaine. If I were, I could not helpe it. Thy ſelfe's a villaine. Its a ranke lie. Lie? Thou exaſperatſt One mad already, that would haue hazard heauen To make this earth drunke with thy bloud.