Field, Nathan · published 1618 · first performed or written 1611 [c.1610-1611] (Annals) comedy · Children of the Queen's Revels · Blackfriars T23 Husbands, wives and jealousy typicality 0.86 · 497 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T23: wife, husband, cuckold, jealousy, woman, jealous, mistress, love, house, honest.
His merit is a halter by this light, You think he's out of Town now, no such matter But gone aside, and hath importuned me To try your chastity. It cannot be, Alas he is as free from jealousy, And ever was as confidence itself, I know he loves me to, too heartily To be suspicious, or to prove my truth. If I do feign in aught, ne'er may I purchase The grace I hope for, and fair mistress If you have any spirit or wit, or sense, You will be even with such a wretched slave, Heaven knows I love you, as the air I draw, Think but how finely you may cuckold him, And safely too, with me, who will report To him, that you are most invincible, Your Chastity not to be subdued by man. When you know, I'm a whore. A whore, fie, no, That you have been kind, or so, your whore doth live In Pickt-hatch, Turnebole-streete. Your whore lives there, Well Servant leave me to myself a while, Return a none, but bear this hope away, 'tshall be with you, if I at all do stray. Why here's right worldly friendship, ye are well met; Oh men! what are you? why is our poor sex Still made the disgrac't subjects, in these plays? For vices, folly, and inconstancy? When were men looked into with such critical eyes Of observation, many would be found So full of gross and base corruption, That none (unless the Devil himself turned writer) Could feign so badly, to express them truly; Some wives that had a husband now like mine, Would yield their honours up, to any man, Far be it from my thoughts, oh let me stand, Thou God of marriage and chastity, An honour to my sex, no injury, Compel the virtue of my breast to yield, i's not revenge for any wife, to stain The nuptial bed, although she be yoked ill, Who falls, because her husband so hath done, Cures not his wound, but in herself makes one. Who brought this Letter? A little Irish footboy, Sir, he stays without for an answer. Bid him come in Lord. What deep dissemblers are these females, all, How far unlike a friend, this Lady used me, And here, how like one mad in love, she writes: So bless me Heaven, but thou art the prettiest boy That e'er ran by a Horse, hast thou dwelled long With thy fair Mistress? I came but this morning, Sir. How fares thy Lady, boy? Like to a turtle, that hath lost her mate, Drooping she sits, her grief Sir cannot speak, Had it a voice articulate, we should know How, and for what she suffers; and perhaps, (But 'tis unlikely) give her Comfort Sir, Weeping she sits, and all the sound comes from her, Is like the murmur of a silver Brook, Which her tears truly, would make there about her, Sat she in any hollow continent.
nodes 523–587 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 13 of 36 in this edition
Length
497 words · 656 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T23 — Husbands, wives and jealousycross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.858 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
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)
His merrit is a halter by this light, You thinke hee's out of Towne now, no such matter But gone aside, and hath importun'd me To tie your chastitie. It cannot be, Alas he is as free from jealouzie, And euer was as confidence it selfe, I know he loues me to, too heartily To be suspitious, or to proue my truth. If I doe faine in ought, ne're may I purchase The grace I hope for, and faire Misteris If you haue any spirit or wit, or sence, You will be euen with such a wretched slaue, Heauen knowes I loue you, as the ayre I draw, Thinke but how finely you may cuckold him, And safely too, with me, who will report To him, that you are most inuincible, Your Chastitie not to be subdu'd by man. When you know, I'm a whore. A whore, fie, no, That you haue beene kind, or so, your whore doth liue In Pict-hatch, Turnebole-streete. Your whore lies there, Well Seruant leaue me to my selfe a while, Returne a none, but beare this hope away, Tshall be with you, if I at all do stray. Why heer's right wordly friendship, ye are well met; Oh men! what are you? why is our poore sexe Still made the digrac't subiects, in these plaies? For vices, follie, and inconstancie? When were men look't into with such criticall eies Of obseruation, many would be found So full of grosse and base corruption, That none (vnlesse the Diuell himselfe turn'd writer) Could faine so badly, to expresse them truely; Some wiues that had a husband now like mine, Would yeeld their honors vp, to any man, Farre be it from my thoughts, oh let me stand, Thou God of marriage and chastitie, An honor to my sexe, no iniurie, Compell the vertue of my breast to yeeld, I'ts not reuenge for any wife, to saine The nuptiall bed, although she be yok't ill, Who fals, because her husband so hath done, Cures not his wound, but in her selfe makes one. Who brought this Letter? A little Irish foot-boy, Sir, he staies without for an answere. Bid him come in Lord. What deepe dissemblers are these females, all, How farre vnlike a friend, this Ladie vs'd me, And heere, how like one mad in loue, she writes: So blesse me Heauen, but thou art the prettiest boy That e're ran by a Horse, hast thou dwelt long With thy faire Mistris? I came but this morning, Sir. How fares thy Ladie, boy? Like to a turtle, that hath lost her mate, Drooping shee sits, her griefe Sir cannot speake, Had it a voice articulate, we should know How, and for what shee sufters; and perhaps, (But t'is vnlikely) giue her Comfort Sir, Wping shee sits, and all the sound comes from her, Is like the murmure of a siluer Brooke, Which her teares truely, would make there about her, Sate she in any hollow continent.