Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
Take heed, your supple joints Are tender, Bones are soon thrust out: a wrinch Comes quickly. I am free from pox, good face. If they be free from thee, it skills the less: Do you remember, how you served me once, When to the Leaguer I was sent from home With some provision to my master's son; You brought me to a whore, a Leaguer whore; Such stuff blind Polypheme would loathe to touch: An wholesome piece, I near loud Mutton since. near blush for shame. 'twas for thine honesty; Now it's on record, 'tis proved, 'tis past the touch. Can you accuse me? no, and speak but true. I saw no hurt, I'll say't, and swear it too: But good cause why; thou couldst nor go, nor stand Thou wert so drunk: unfit for Venus' game, A cart became thee better than a Coach. Why thou tell'st all, thou mightst have hid some part, And no I have shamed me so fore company, But i'll requite you, if I live ten days. It was no marvel, I will tell thee rest. As through the camp I passed in strange amaze, Driving mine Ass before me with his load; I thought to be devoured Ass and all By hungry soldiers, they did look so thin: My heels they were flung up, and headlong I, Fell on a sutler's hut a fortnight's space, I had no legs, nor could I quit that place. What wert thou shot? And lamed: you know too well, The grievous moan our Alips made for me, Alas, poor girl, she thought I had been slain, But had the Bullet hit me, as the wind, Poor Beer-pot had been squashed, these handsome limbs Had flown in pieces, nor splinter left unbroke. That had been pity, which way went the shot To Callais as I think, or further off, I scaped I am sure, that dreadful malling knock. O hold my head my thumb begins to ache, From hence to France if this be not a lie. Is that good manners for to take my tale, Out of my mouth, before I make an end. I have no manners: had I such an one As Amptill is, to which seven Parks belong, I would keep thee to be my worship's fool. Why? where is Amptill. In the Fairy land. Where men eat mutton, pig, and goose, and beef, rabbits and chickens, partridge, pheasants, quails, And drink rich wine, that France or Spain sends in, And strong March Beer, of five or six years old, But on with thy tale. I'll hang thee first, The Fairy land, where's that? I am with child, Good Pasquill tell me quickly, else I die; My mind is ravished from this lower Orb, 'tis not far off, we'll go to Flutterkins, And talk more on't.
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)
Take heed, your ſupple ioynts Are tender, Bones are ſoone thruſt out: a vvrinch Comes quickly. I am free from poxe, good face. If they be free from thee, it skils the leſſe: Doe you remember, how you ſerude me once, When to the Leaguer I was ſent from home With ſome prouiſion to my maſters ſonne; You brought me to a vvhore, a Leaguer vvhore; Such ſtuffe blinde Polipheme would loath to touch: An wholeſome piece, I neere loude Mutton ſince. Neere bluſh for ſhame. Twas for thine honeſty; Now its on record, tis prooud, tis paſt the tutch. Can you accuſe me? no, and ſpeake but true. I ſaw no hurt, ile ſayt, and ſweare it too: But good cauſe why; thou couldſt nor go, nor ſtand Thou wert ſo drunke: vnfit for Venus game, A cart became thee better then a Coach. Why thou telſt all, thou mightſt haue hid ſome part, And no I haue ſhamde me ſo fore company, But ile requite you, if I liue ten dayes. It was no maruell, I will tell thee reſt. As through the campe I paſt in ſtrange amaze, Driuing mine Aſſe before me with his load; I thought to be deuoured Aſſe and all By hungry ſouldiers, they did looke ſo thinne: My heeles they were flung vp, and headlong I, Fell on a Sutlers hut a fortnights ſpace, I had no legs, nor could I quit that place. What wert thou ſhot? And lamde: you know too well, The grieuous moane our Alips made for me, Alaſſe, poore gyrle, ſhe thought I had been ſlaine, But had the Bullet hit me, as the winde, Poor Beere-pot had been ſquaſht, theſe hanſom lims Had flowne in pieces, nor ſplinter left vnbroke. That had been pitty, which way went the ſhot To Callais as I thinke, or further off, I ſcapt I am ſure, that dreadfull malling knocke. O hold my head my thumbe begins to ake, From hence to France if this be not a lye. Is that good manners for to take my tale, Out of my mouth, before I make an end. I haue no manners: had I ſuch an one As Amptill is, to which ſeuen Parkes belong, I would keepe thee to be my worſhips foole. Why? where is Amptill. In the Fayery land. Where men eate mutton, pigge, and gooſe, and beefe, Rabbets and chickens, partridge, pheaſants, quailes, And drinke rich wine, that France or Spaine ſends in, And ſtrong March Beere, of fiue or ſixe yeeres old, But on with thy tale. Ile hang thee firſt, The Fayery land, wheres that? I am with child, Good Paſquill tell me quickely, elſe I die; My mind is rauiſht from this lower Orbe, Tis not farre of, weele goe to Flutterkins, And talke more on't.