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) T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds typicality 0.85 · 478 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
O most cruel Butcher. My anger ends not here, hell's dreadful porter Receive into thy ever open gates Their damned souls, and let the furies whips On them alone be wasted: and when death Closes these eyes, 'twill be Elysium to me, To hear their shrieks and howlings, make me Pluto Thy instruments to furnish thee with souls Of this accursed sect, nor let me fall Till my fell vengeance hath consumed them all. 'tis a brave zeal. O call him back again, Call back your hangman, here's on prisoner left To be the subject of his knife. Not so. We are not so near reconciled unto thee, Thou shalt not perish such an easy way. Be she your charge Sapritius now, and suffer None to come near her till we have found out Some torments worthy of her. Courage Mistress, These Martyrs but prepare your glorious fate, You shall exceed them and not imitate. Spungious. My fine rogue, how is't? how goes this tottered world Hast any money? Money! no, the Tavern. ivy clings about my money and kills it. Hast thou any money? No, my money is a mad Bull, and finding any gap opened, away it runs. I see then a Tavern and a Bawdy-house have faces much like, the one has red grates next door, the tother has peeping holes within doors; the Tavern hath evermore a bush, the bawdy close sometimes neither hedge nor bush. From a Tavern a man comes reeling, from a bawdy house not able to stand. In the Tavern you are cozened with paltry Wine, in a bawdy-house by a painted Where, Money may have Wine, and a Whore will have Money, but neither can you cry, Drawer you Rogue, or keep door rotten Bawd, without a silver Whistle, we are justly plagued therefore for running from our Mistress. Thou didst, I did not; yet I had run to, but that one gave me turpentine pills, & that stayed my running. Well: the thread of my life is drawn through the needle of necessity, whose eye looking upon my lousy breeches, cries out it cannot mend'em: which so pricks the linings of my body, and those are Heart, Lights, Lungs, Guts, and Midriff, that I beg on my knees to have Atropos (the tailor to the destinies) to take her shears and cut my thread in two, or to heat the Iron goose of Mortality, and so press me to death. Sure thy father was some botcher, and thy hungry tongue bit off these shreds of complaints, to patch up the elbows of thy nitty eloquence. And what was thy father? A low minded Cobbler, a Cobbler whose zeal set many a woman upright, the remembrance of whose Awl I now having nothing, thrusts such scurvy stitches into my soul, that the heel of my happiness has gone awry.
1620 [licensed for stage, Oct 6; revised and re-licensed for stage, Jul 7, 1624]
First performance (BritDrama)
1620 [Oct]
Company (BritDrama)
Red Bull (Revels) Company (first)
Genre (British Drama)
tragedy
Play type
Adult Professional;Professional
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 843 · TCP A07249 · DEEP 698
Edition role
Representative edition — used in the analysis
Position
nodes 1487–1520 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 24 of 43 in this edition
Length
478 words · 638 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T47 — Knaves, thieves and bawdscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.854 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T46 · seed 44: T41 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
O most cruell Butcher. My anger ends not here, hels dreadfull porter Receiue into thy euer open gates Their damned soules, and let the futies whips On them alone be wasted: and when death Closes these eyes, twill be Elizium to me, To heare their shreekes and howlings, make me Pluto Thy instruments to furnish thee with soules Of this accursed fect, nor let me fall Till my fell vengeance hath consum'd them all. Tis a braue zeale. O call him backe againe, Call backe your hangman, here's on prisoner left To be the subiect of his knife. Not so. We are not so neere reconcilde vnto thee, Thou shalt not perish such an easie way. Be she your charge Sapritius now, and suffer None to come neere her till we haue found out Some torments worthy of her. Courage Mistresse, These Martyrs but prepare your glorious fate, You shall exceed them and not imitate. Spunoius. My fine rogue, how ist? how goes this totterd world Hast any money? Money! no, the Tauerne. Iuy clings about my mony and kils it. Hast thou any mony? No, my mony is a mad Bull, and finding any gap opend, away it runs. I see then a Tauerne and a Bawdy-house haue faces much like, the one has red grates next dore, the tother has peeping holes within doores; the Tauerne hath euermore a bush, the bawdy close sometimes neither hedge nor bush. From a Tauerne a man comes reeling, from a bawdy house not able to stand. In the Tauerne you are cousend with paltry Wine, in a bawdy-house by a painted Where, Money may haue Wine, and a Whore will haue Mony, but neither can you cry, Drawer you Rogue, or keepe doore rotten Bawde, without a siluer 'Whistle, wee are iustly plagued therefore for running from our Mistresse. Thou didst, I did not; yet I had run to, but that one gaue me turpentine pilles, & that stayde my running. Well: the thred of my life is drawne through the needle of necessity, whose eye looking vpon my lowsie breeches, cryes out it cannot mend'em: which so prickes the linings of my body, and those are Heart, Lights, Lungs, Guts, and Midriffe, that I beg on my knees to haue Atropos (the Tailer to the destinies) to take her sheares and cut my thred in two, or to heate the Iron goose of Mortalitie, and so presse me to death. Sure thy father was some botcher, and thy hungry tongue bit off these shreds of complaints, to patch vp the elbowes of thy nittie cloquence. And what was thy father? A low minded Cobler, a Cobler whose zeale set many a woman vpright, the remembrance of whose Awle I now hauing nothing, thrusts such scuruy stitches into my soule, that the heele of my happines has gone awry.