Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1603 [1603-1604] (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T46 Swords, quarrels and valour · 456 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T46: rapier, sword, fight, gentlemen, gentleman, kicked, kill, dagger, signor, valour.
My Lord you do me most insupportable vexation. I would it were hell pains for thy sake, and my poor doing eternal: for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion age will give me leave. Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me; scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy Lord: Well, I must be patiented, there is no fettering of authority. I'll beat him (by my life) if I can meet him with any convenience, and he were double and double a Lord. I'll have no more pity of his age than I would have of— I'll beat him, and if I could but meet him again. Sirrah, your Lord and masters married, there's news for you: you have a new Mistress. I most unfeignedly beseech your Lordship to make some reservation of your wrongs. He is my good Lord, whom I serve above is my master. Who? God. I sir. The devil it is, that's thy master. Why dost thou garter up thy arms a this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeves? Do other servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose stands. By mine Honour, If I were but two hours younger, I'd beat thee: meethink'st thou art a general offence, and every man should beat thee: I think thou wast created for men to breath themselves upon thee. This is hard and undeserved measure my Lord. Go too sir, you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel out of a Pomegranate, you are a vagabond, and no true traveler: you are more saucy with Lords and honourable personages, than the Commission of your birth and virtue gives you Heraldry. You are not worth another word, else I'd call you knave. I leave you. Good, very good, it is so then: good, very good, let it be concealed awhile. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever. What's the matter sweetheart? Although before the solemn Priest I have sworn, I will not bed her. What? what sweet heart? O my Parrolles, they have married me: I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits, The tread of a man's foot: too ' th' wars. There's letters from my mother: What th' import is, I know not yet. I that would be known: too ' th' wars my boy, too ' th' wars: He wears his honour in a box unseen, That hugs his kickie wickie hear at home, Spending his manly marrow in her arms Which should sustain the bound and high curvet Of Mars' fiery steed: to other Regions, France is a stable, we that dwell in't jades, Therefore too ' th' war.
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)
My Lord you do me moſt inſupportable vexation. I would it were hell paines for thy ſake, and my poore doing eternall: for doing I am paſt, as I will by thee, in what motion age will giue me leaue. Well, thou haſt a ſonne ſhall take this diſgrace off me; ſcuruy, old, filthy, ſcuruy Lord: Well, I muſt be patient, there is no fettering of authority. Ile beate him (by my life) if I can meete him with any conuenience, and he were double and double a Lord. Ile haue no more pittie of his age then I would haue of—Ile beate him, and if I could but meet him agen. Sirra, your Lord and maſters married, there's newes for you: you haue a new Miſtris. I moſt vnfainedly beſeech your Lordſhippe to make ſome reſeruation of your wrongs. He is my good Lord, whom I ſerue aboue is my maſter. Who? God. I ſir. The deuill it is, that's thy maſter. Why dooeſt thou garter vp thy armes a this faſhion? Doſt make hoſe of thy ſleeues? Do other ſeruants ſo? Thou wert beſt ſet thy lower part where thy noſe ſtands. By mine Honor, If I were but two houres yonger, I'de beate thee: meethink'ſt thou art a generall offence, and euery man ſhold beate thee: I thinke thou waſt created for men to breath themſelues vpon thee. This is hard and vndeſerued meaſure my Lord. Go too ſir, you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernell out of a Pomgranat, you are a vagabond, and no true traueller: you are more ſawcie with Lordes and honourable perſonages, then the Commiſsion of your birth and vertue giues you Heraldry. You are not worth another word, elſe I'de call you knaue. I leaue you. Good, very good, it is ſo then: good, very good, let it be conceal'd awhile. Vndone, and forfeited to cares for euer. What's the matter ſweet-heart? Although before the ſolemne Prieſt I haue ſworne, I will not bed her. What? what ſweet heart? O my Parrolles, they haue married me: Ile to the Tuſcan warres, and neuer bed her. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits, The tread of a mans foot: too 'th warres. There's letters from my mother: What th' import is, I know not yet. I that would be knowne: too 'th warrs my boy, too 'th warres: He weares his honor in a boxe vnſeene, That hugges his kickie wickie heare at home, Spending his manlie marrow in her armes Which ſhould ſuſtaine the bound and high curuet Of Marſes fierie ſteed: to other Regions, France is a ſtable, wee that dwell in't Iades, Therefore too 'th warre.