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) T60 Imperial Rome: rulers, favour and politi typicality 0.82 · 503 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T60: caesar, rome, emperor, empire, honour, lord, lucius, great, palsgrave, kings.
Caesar's imperial daughter, hear me speak, Let not this Christian Thing, in this her pageantry Of proud deriding, both our gods and Caesar, Build to herself a kingdom in her death Going laughing from us. No, her bitterest torment Shall be to feel her constancy beaten down, The bravery of her resolution lie Battered by the argument, into such pieces, That she again shall (on her belly) creep To kiss the pavements of our Panim good. How to be done. He send my daughters to her, And they shall turn her rocky faith to wax, Else spit at me, let me be made your slave, And meet no Romans but a villain's grave. Thy prisoner let her be then: and Sapritius Your son, and that be yours: death shall be sent To him that suffers them by voice or letters To greet each other. Rifle her estate, Christians to beggary brought grow desperate. Still on the Bread of poverty let me feed. O my admired mistress; quench not out The holy fires within you, though temptations Shower down upon you: clasp thine armour on, Fight well and thou shalt see, after these wars Thy head wear Sun beams, and thy feet touch stars. How now Angelo how is't? how is't? what thread spins That whore Fortune upon her wheel now. Comesta, comesta poor knave. Come a port von, come a port von, my petite garcon Me partha we Comrade, my half inch of man's Flesh, how run the dice of this cheating world, ha? Too well on your sides, you are hid in gold o'er head and ears. We thank our fates, the sign of the gingle-boys hangs at the doors of our pockets. Who would think that we coming forth of the arse, as it were, or fag end of the world, should yet see the golden age, when so little silver is stirring. Nay who can say any citizen is an Ass, for lading his own back, with money, till his soul cracks again, only to leave his son like a gilded coxcomb behind him? will not any fool take me for a wiseman now, seeing me draw out of the pit of my treasury, this little god with his belly full of gold. And this full of the same meat out of my ambrey That gold will melt to poison. Poison, wudit would, whole pints for healths shall down my throat. Gold poison! there's never a she-thrasher in Caesarea that lives on the flail of money will call it so. Like slaves you sold your souls for golden dross, Bewitching her to death, who stepped between You, and the gallows. 'twas an easy matter to save us, she being so well backed. The gallows and we fell out, so she did but part us The misery of that mistress is mine own, She beggared, I left wretched. I can but let my Nose drop in sorrow with wet eyes for her. The petticoat of her estate is unlaced I confess.
seed 43: T1 · seed 44: T2 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Caesars imperiall daughter, heare me speake, Let not this Christian Thing, in this her pagentry Of prowd deriding, both our gods and Caesar, Build to her selfe a kingdome in her death Going laughing from vs. No, her bitterest torment Shall be to seele her constancy beaten downe, The brauery of her resolution lie Battered by the argument, into such peeces, That she agen shall (on her belly) creepe To kisse the pauements of our Panim gode. How to be done. He send my daughers to her, And they shall turne her rocky faith to waxe, Else spit at me, let me be made your slaue, And meete no Romans but a villains graue. Thy prisoner let her be then: and Sapritius Your sonne, and that be yours: death shall be sent To him that suffers them by voyce or letters To greet each other. Rifle her estate, Christians to beggery brought grow desperate. Still on the Bread of pouerty let me feed. O my admired mistresse; quench not out The holy fires within you, though temptations Showre downe vpon you: claspe thine armour on, Fight well and thou shalt see, after these warres Thy head weare Sun beames, and thy feet touch starres. How now Angelo how ist? how ist? what thred spins That whore Fortune vpon her wheele now. Comesta, comesta poore knaue. Com a porte von, com a porte von, my petite garsoone Me partha wee Comrade, my halfe inch of mans Flesh, how run the dice of this cheating world, ha? Too well on your sides, you are hid in gold Ore head and eares. We thanke our fates, the signe of the gingle-boyes hangs at the doores of our pockets. Who wud thinke that we comming forth of the arse, as it were, or fag end of the world, should yet see the golden age, when so little siluer is stirring. Nay who can say any citizen is an Asse, for lading his owne backe, with money, till his soule crackes agen, onely to leaue his sonne like a gilded coxccombe behinde him? will not any foole take me for a wiseman now, seeing me draw out of the pit of my treasury, this little god with his belly full of gold. And this full of the same meate out of my ambrey That gold will melt to poyson. Poyson, wudit wud, whole pintes for healths shall downe my throate. Gold poyson! there's neuer a she-thrasher in Casarea that liues on the flaile of money will call it so. Like slaues you sold your soules for golden drosse, Bewitching her to death, who stept betweene You, and the gallowes. T was an easie matter to saue vs, she being so well backt. The gallowes and we fell out, so she did but part vs The misery of that mistresse is mine owne, She beggerd, I left wretched. I can but let my Nose drop in sorrow with wet eyes for her. The petticote of her estate is vnlac'd I confesse.