Dekker, Thomas / Massinger, Philip · published 1622 · first performed or written 1620 [licensed for stage, Oct 6; revised and re-licensed for stage, Jul 7, 1624] (Annals) tragedy · Red Bull (Revels) Company (first) unassigned nearest T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds · 493 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
Would thy ribs were turned into grates of iron then. As I am a total Pagan, I swore they should be hanged first: for sirrah Spungius, I lay at my old ward of lechery, and cried a pox in your twopenny wards, and so I took scurvy common flesh for the money. And wisely done, for our Lady sending it to prisoners, had bestowed it out upon lousy knaves, and thou to save that labour casts it away upon rotten whores. All my fear is of that pinkany jack-an ape's boy, her page. As I am a Pagan, from my codpiece downward that white-faced Monkey, frights me to, I stole but a dirty pudding last day out of an almsbasket, to give my dog when he was hungry, and the peaking chitface page hit me i'th' teeth with it. With the dirty pudding; so he did me once with a cow-turd, which in knavery I would have crumbed into ones porridge, who was half a Pagan to: the smug dandiprat smells us out whatsoever we are doing. Does he! let him take heed I prove not his back friend; He make him curse his smelling what I do. 'tis my Lady spoils the boy, for he is ever at her tail: and she's never well but in his company. O! now your hearts make ladders of your eyes In show to climb to heaven, when your devotion Walks upon crutches: where did you waste your time When the religious man was on his knees, Speaking the heavenly language. Why fellow Angelo, we were speaking in pedlars French I hope. We ha' not been idle, take it upon my word. Have you the baskets emptied which your Lady Sent from the charitable hands, to women That dwell upon her pity? Emptied 'em! yes, I'd be loath to have my belly so empty, yet I'm sure, I munched not one bit of them neither. And went your money to the prisoners. Went no, I carried it; and with these fingers paid it away. What way? the devil's way, the way of sin, The way of hot damnation, way of lust: And you to, wash away the poor man's bread In bowls of drunkenness. Drunkenness! yes, yes, I use to be drunk: our next neighbour's man called Christopher has often seen me drunk, has he not? Or me given so to the flesh, my cheeks speak my doings. avaunt you thieves, and hollow hypocrites. Your hearts to me lie open like black books, And there I read your doings. And what do you read in my heart? Or in mine? come amiable. Angelo, beat the flint of your brains. And let's see what sparks of wit fly out, to kindle your Carebruns. Your names even brand you, you are Spurgius called And like a Sponge you suck up liquorous wines Till your soul reels to hell. To hell! can any drunkards legs carry him so far.
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)
Wud thy ribs were turnd into grates of iron then. As I am a totall Pagan, I swore they should be hangd first: for sirra Spungius, I lay at my old ward of lechery, and cryed a poxe in your two-penny wards, and so I tooke scuruy common flesh for the mony. And wisely done, for our Lady sending it to prisoners, had bestowed it out vpon lowsie knaues, and thou to saue that labour casts it away vpon rotten whores. All my feare is of that pinke-an-eye Iacke-an Apes boy, her page. As I am a Pagan, from my cod-peece downward that white-fac'd Monkie, frights me to, I stole but a durty pudding last day out of an almsebasket, to giue my dogge when he was hungry, and the peaking chitface page hit me ith' teeth with it. With the durty pudding; so he did me once with a cowturd, which in knauery I would haue crumd into ones porridge, who was halfe a Pagan to: the smug dandiprat smels vs out whatsoeuer we are doing. Does he! let him take heede I proue not his backe friend; He make him curse his smelling what I doe. Tis my Lady spoyles the boy, for he is euer at her tayle: and she's neuer well but in his company. O! now your hearts make ladders of your eyes In shew to climbe to heauen, when your deuotion Walkes vpon crutches: where did you waste your time When the religious man was on his knees, Speaking the heauenly languague. Why fellow Angelo, we were speaking in pedlars French I hope. We ha not bene idle, take it vpon my word. Haue you the baskets emptied which your Lady Sent from the charitable hands, to women That dwell vpon her pitty? Emptled em! yes, Ide be loth to haue my belly so emptie, yet I'm sure, I munched not one bit of them neither. And went your money to the prisoners. Went no, I carryed it; and with these fingers paid it away. What way? the diuels way, the way of sinne, The way of hot damnation, way of lust: And you to, wash away the poore mans bread In bowles of drunkennesse. Drunkennesse! yes, yes, I vse to bee drunke: our next neighbours man called Christopher has often seene me drunke, has he not? Or me giuen so to the flesh, my cheekes speake my doings. Auant you theeues, and hollow hypocrites. Your hearts to me lie open like blacke bookes, And there I reade your doings. And what do you read in my heart? Or in mine? come amiable. Angelo, beate the flint of your braines. And lets see what sparkes of wit fly out, to kindle your Carebruns. Your names euen brand you, you are Spurgius cald And like a Spunge you sucke vp liquorous wines Till your soule reeles to hell. To hell! can any drunkards legs carry him so far.