Massinger, Philip · published 1624 · first performed or written 1623 [licensed for stage, Dec 3] (Annals) tragicomedy · Lady Elizabeth's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit unassigned nearest T16 Gallantry: ladies, lordships and complim · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T16: lady, madam, gentleman, lordship, ladies, honour, mistress, sweet, court, servant.
'Slight she's asleep! 'Tis pity, these instructions are not printed: They would sell well to Chambermaids, 'tis no time now To play with my good fortune, and your favour, Yet to be taken, as they say: a scout To give the signal when the enemy comes, Were now worth gold: she's gone to watch. A waiter so trained up were worth a million, To a wanton City Madam. You are grown conceited. You teach me; Lady, now your Cabinet. You speak, as it were yours. When we are there, I'll show you my best evidence. Hold, you forget, I only play Cleora's part. No matter, Now we have begun, let's end the act. Forbear, Sir, Your Father's wife? Why, being his Heir, I am bound, Since he can make no satisfaction to you, To see his debts paid. madam, my Lord. Fall off, I must trifle with the time too; Hell confound it. Plague on his toothless chaps, he cannot do't Himself, yet hinders such as have good stomachs. Where are you, Wife? I fain would go abroad, But cannot find my Slaves, that bear my Litter: I am tired, your shoulder, Son; nay sweet, thy hand too, A turn or two in the Garden, and then to Supper, And so to Bed. Never to rise, I hope, more. 'Twill take, I warrant thee. You may do your pleasure: But, in my judgement, better to make use of The present opportunity. No more. I am silenced. More wine, pray thee drink hard, friend, And when we are hot, whatever I propound, Second with vehemency: men of your words, all welcome, Slaves use no ceremony, sit down, here's a health, Let it run round, fill every man his Glass. We look for no waiters; this is Wine. The better, Strong, lusty wine: drink deep, this juice will make us As free as our Lords. But if they find, we taste it, We are all damned to the quarry, during life, Without hope of redemption. Pish, for that we'll talk anon: another rouse, we lose time, When our low blood's wound up a little higher, I'll offer my design; nay, we are cold yet, These Glasses contain nothing; do me right, As ere you hope for liberty. 'Tis done bravely, How do you feel yourselves now? I begin To have strange Conundrums in my head. And I, To loathe base water: I would be hanged in peace now, For one month of such holidays. An age, Boys, And yet defy the Whip, if you are men, Or dare believe, you have souls. We are no Brokers: Nor Whores, whose marks are out of their mouths, they have none, They hardly can get salt enough to keep 'em From stinking above ground. Our Lords are no Gods? They are Devils to us, I am sure. But subject to Cold, hunger, and diseases. In abundance. Your Lord, that feels no ache in his chine at twenty, Forfeits his privilege, how should their Chirurgeon build else, Or ride on their foot-cloths?
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)
'Slight shee's asleepe! 'Tis pitty, these instructions are not printed: They would sell well to Chamber-maides, 'tis no time now To play with my good fortune, and your fauour, Yet to be taken, as they say: a scout To giue the signall when the enemie comes, Were now worth gold: Shee's gone to watch. A wayter so trayn'd vp were worth a million, To a wanton Citie Madam. You are growne conceited. You teach me; Lady, now your Cabinet. You speake, as it were yours. When we are there, Ile show you my best euidence. Holde, you forget, I onely play Cleora's part. No matter, Now we haue begun, let's end the act. Forbeare, Sir, Your Fathers wife? Why, being his Heyre, I am bound, Since he can make no satisfaction to you, To see his debts payd. Madame, my Lord. Fall off, I must trifle with the time too; Hell confound it. Plague on his toothlesse chaps, he cannot do't Himselfe, yet hinders such as haue good stomacks. Where are you, Wife? I faine would goe abroad, But cannot finde my Slaues, that beare my Litter: I am tyr'd, your shoulder, Sonne; nay sweet, thy hand too, A turne or two in the Garden, and then to Supper, And so to Bed. Neuer to rise, I hope, more. 'Twill take, I warrant thee. You may doe your pleasure: But, in my judgement, better to make vse of The present opportunitie. No more. I am silenc'd. More wine, pray thee drinke hard, friend, And when we are hot, what euer I propound, Second with vehemency: men of your wordes, all welcome, Slaues vse no ceremonie, sit downe, heer's a health, Let it runne round, fill euery man his Glasse. We looke for no wayters; this is Wine. The better, Strong, lusty wine: drinke deepe, this juyce will make vs As free as our Lords. But if they finde, we taste it, We are all damn'd to the quarry, during life, Without hope of redemption. Pish, for that Wee'l talke anon: another rowse, we loose time, When our lowe blood's wound vp a little higher, Ile offer my designe; nay, we are colde yet, These Glasses containe nothing; doe me right, As e're you hope for liberty. 'Tis done brauely, How doe you feele your selues now? I begin To haue strange Conundrums in my head. And I, To loath base water: I would be hang'd in peace now, For one moneth of such Holy-dayes. An age, Boyes, And yet defie the Whip, if you are men, Or dare belieue, you haue soules. We are no Broakers: Nor Whores, whose markes are out of their mouthes, they haue none, They hardly can get salt enough to keep 'em From stinking aboue ground. Our Lords are no Gods? They are Diuels to vs, I am sure. But subject to Colde, hunger, and diseases. In abundance. Your Lord, that feeles no ach in his chine at twentie, Forfeits his priuiledge, how should their Chyrurgion build else, Or ride on their Foot-cloathes?