Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1607 [c.1606-c.1608] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds · 516 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
I Timon, and have cause. The Gods confound them all in thy Conquest, And thee after, when thou hast Conquered. Why me, Timon? That by killing of Villains Thou was't borne to conquer my Country. Put up thy Gold. Go on, here's Gold, go on; Be as a Plannetary plague, when Ioue Will o'er some high-viced City, hang his poison In the sick air: let not thy sword skip one: Pity not honoured Age for his white Beard, He is an Usurer. Strike me the counterfeit Matron, It is her habit only, that is honest, herself's a Bawd. Let not the Virgin's cheek Make soft thy trenchant Sword: for those Milk paps That through the window Barn bore at men's eyes, Are not within the Leaf of pity writ, But set them down horrible Traitors. Spare not the Babe Whose dimpled smiles from Fools exhaust their mercy; Think it a Bastard, whom the Oracle Hath doubtfully pronounced, the throat shall cut, And mince it sans remorse. Swear against Objects, Put Armour on thine ears, and on thine eyes, Whose proof, nor yels of Mothers, Maids, nor Babes, Nor sight of Priests in holy Vestments bleeding, Shall pierce a jot. There's Gold to pay thy Soldiers, Make large confusion: and thy fury spent, Confounded be thyself. Speak not, be gone. Hast thou Gold yet, I'll take the Gold thou givest me, not all thy Counsel. Dost thou or dost thou not, Heaven's curse upon thee. Give us some Gold good Timon, hast thou more? Enough to make a Whore forswear her Trade, And to make Whores, a Bawd. Hold up you Sluts Your Aprons mountant; you are not Othable, Although I know you'll swear, terribly swear Into strong shudders, and to heavenly Agues Th' immortal Gods that hear you. Spare your Oaths: I'll trust to your Conditions, be whores still. And he whose pious breath seeks to convert you, Be strong in Whore, allure him, burn him up, Let your close fire predominate his smoke, And be no turne-coats: yet may your pains six months Be quite contrary, And Thatch Your poor thin Roofs with burdens of the dead, (Some that were hanged) no matter: Wear them, betray with them; Whore still, Paint till a horse may mire upon your face: A pox of wrinkles. Well, more Gold, what then? Believe't that we'll do any thing for Gold. Consumptions sow In hollow bones of man, strike their sharp shins, And mar men's spurring. Crack the Lawyer's voice, That he may never more false Title plead, Nor sound his Quillers shrilly: Hoare the Flamen, That scold'st against the quality of flesh, And not believes himself. down with the Nose, down with it flat, take the Bridge quite away Of him, that his particular to foresee Smells from the general weal. Make curld'pate Ruffians bald And let the unscarred Braggerts of the War Derive some pain from you. Plague all, That your Activity may defeat and quell The source of all Erection. There's more Gold. Do you damn others, and let this damn you, And ditches grave you all.
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)
I Timon, and haue cauſe. The Gods confound them all in thy Conqueſt, And thee after, when thou haſt Conquer'd. Why me, Timon? That by killing of Villaines Thou was't borne to conquer my Country. Put vp thy Gold. Go on, heeres Gold, go on; Be as a Plannetary plague, when Ioue Will o're ſome high-Vic'd City, hang his poyſon In the ſicke ayre: let not thy ſword skip one: Pitty not honour'd Age for his white Beard, He is an Vſurer. Strike me the counterfet Matron, It is her habite onely, that is honeſt, Her ſelfe's a Bawd. Let not the Virgins cheeke Make ſoft thy trenchant Sword: for thoſe Milke pappes That through the window Barne bore at mens eyes, Are not within the Leafe of pitty writ, But ſet them down horrible Traitors. Spare not the Babe Whoſe dimpled ſmiles from Fooles exhauſt their mercy; Thinke it a Baſtard, whom the Oracle Hath doubtfully pronounced, the throat ſhall cut, And mince it ſans remorſe. Sweare againſt Obiects, Put Armour on thine eares, and on thine eyes, Whoſe proofe, nor yels of Mothers, Maides, nor Babes, Nor ſight of Prieſts in holy Veſtments bleeding, Shall pierce a iot. There's Gold to pay thy Souldiers, Make large confuſion: and thy fury ſpent, Confounded be thy ſelfe. Speake not, be gone. Haſt thou Gold yet, Ile take the Gold thou giueſt me, not all thy Counſell. Doſt thou or doſt thou not, Heauens curſe vpon thee. Giue vs ſome Gold good Timon, haſt yu more? Enough to make a Whore forſweare her Trade, And to make Whores, a Bawd. Hold vp you Sluts Your Aprons mountant; you are not Othable, Although I know you'l ſweare, terribly ſweare Into ſtrong ſhudders, and to heauenly Agues Th' immortall Gods that heare you. Spare your Oathes: Ile truſt to your Conditions, be whores ſtill. And he whoſe pious breath ſeekes to conuert you, Be ſtrong in Whore, allure him, burne him vp, Let your cloſe fire predominate his ſmoke, And be no turne-coats: yet may your paines ſix months Be quite contrary, And Thatch Your poore thin Roofes with burthens of the dead, (Some that were hang'd) no matter: Weare them, betray with them; Whore ſtill, Paint till a horſe may myre vpon your face: A pox of wrinkles. Well, more Gold, what then? Beleeue't that wee'l do any thing for Gold. Conſumptions ſowe In hollow bones of man, ſtrike their ſharpe ſhinnes, And marre mens ſpurring. Cracke the Lawyers voyce, That he may neuer more falſe Title pleade, Nor ſound his Quillers ſhrilly: Hoare the Flamen, That ſcold'ſt againſt the quality of fleſh, And not beleeues himſelfe. Downe with the Noſe, Downe with it flat, take the Bridge quite away Of him, that his particular to foreſee Smels from the generall weale. Make curld'pate Ruffians bald And let the vnſcarr'd Braggerts of the Warre Deriue ſome paine from you. Plague all, That your Actiuity may defeate and quell The ſourſe of all Erection. There's more Gold. Do you damne others, and let this damne you, And ditches graue you all.