Hawkins, William · published 1627 · first performed or written 1627 [Feb 6] (Annals) comedy unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 486 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
I Have been mending my hedges, which the scurvy boy Ludio broke down. And now when I would rest at home, and take my nooning-nap, I must be vexed with my son, my wretched son. They say that Apollo keeps visitation today. I will lay my son at his Palace gate, perhaps this feast day we may get some favour, some drop of his clemency. IV. goe Rubbish What jug? bring away the looking glass. Thou dirty Rubbish, thy singers have defiled the lace of my Cuffs. Will not cuffing about the ears make you more cleanly? The lace is so thick, that I was fain to tug hard at it. I know not what can foul it, unless the smoothing-iron cast a rusty colour through the paper Out upon thee for an old rusty liar. The glass▪ Hold it on the other side. You know I do not love to behold that mole on this cheek. Thou spiteful baggage, more yet on the left hand. Is that the left hand? here's my left hand. ay, but the other side is my left hand. You must conform your eyes and hands to your▪ Mistress, and forget which is your own right or left. does my Veil hang in true proportion? I can say nothing for any portion, but in hangs just behind you. Unless I be set all in print, the Poetical Muse will make times on me, when they see me in A● judgement Hall. But jug, what had my son to breakfast this morning? A pullet's wing. That's not forsooth. What nothing else? Forsooth a piece of Pie too But so sooth Mistress, if you give me leave, I'll tell you what they say of him. What? who? Why? Marry forsooth Philoponus, and others eke also do say, if you feed him so much, that he will never prove: a scholar. Prove scholar? Do they think my child is so low borne as to be made a by scholar? Shall such a keen refined wit be dulled and embased, by plodding on a book? What is Philoponus but a Bookworm, an inkhorn squirt, a botching patcher of Latin shreds What is this learning, but a little gibberish in the tongue, a sheepish look in the face, and penniless famine in the purse? I he more scholar a young man is, the less like to speed of a rich wife. I will have my son the mark and wish of the most renowned Dames. I do not so hate scholars, but that I could one in my heart to marry Philoponus at a venture. I will, as mannerly as I may, tell Apollo that it is an honour to his school, that such a one as my son was of it, though but for a taste of the muse's dish, a gentle touch of the verge of their garment. ay, but is my Coach ready?
seed 43: T29 · seed 44: T27 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I Haue bin mending my hedges, which the scuruy boy Ludio broake downe. And now when I would rest at home, and take my nooning-nap, I must bee vexed with my sonne, my wretched sonne. They say that Apollo keepes visitation to day. I will lay my sonne at his Pallace gate, perhaps this feast day wee may get some fauour, some drop of his clemency. IV. ge Rubbish What Iugge? bring away the looking glae. Thou dirty Rubbish, thy singers haue defiled the lace of my Cuffes. Will not cuffing about the eares make you more cleanly? The lace is so thicke, that I was faine to tugge hard at it. I know not what can foule it, vnlesse the smoothing-iron cast a rusty colour through the paper Out vpon thee for an old rusty lyer. The glasse▪ Hold it on the other side. You know I doe not loue to behold that moule on this cheeke. Thou spitefull baggage, more yet on the left hand. Is that the left hand? Heere's my left hand. I, but the other side is my left hand. You must conforme your eyes and hands to your▪ Mistresse, and forget which is your owne right or left. Do's my Vaile hang in true proportion? I can say nothing or any portion, but in hangs iust behinde you. Vnlesse I be set all in print, the Poeticall Mus will make times on me, when they see mee in A Iudgement Hall. But Iugge, what had my sonne to breakefast this morning? A Pullets wing. That's not forsooth. What nothing else? Forsooth a piece of Pye too But so sooth Mistresse, if you giue me leaue, I'le tell you what they say o him. What? who? Why? Marry forsooth Pponus, and others eke also d say, if you feed him so much, that he will neuer pu: a scholler. Proue scholler? Doe they thinke my childe is so low borne as to be made a y scholler? Shall such a keene resin'd wt be dul'd and imbased, by plodding on a booke? What is Philoponus but a Bookeworme, an Inckhorne squirt, a botching patcher of Latin shred What is this learning, but a little gibberish in the tongue, a sheepish looke in the face, and pennilesse famine in the purse? I he more schollar a young man is, the lesse like to speed of a rich wife. I will haue my sonne the marke and wish of the most renowned Dames. I doe not so hate schollars, but that I could ne in my heart to may Philus at a venture. I will, as manerly as I may, tell Apollo that it is an honour to his schoole, that such a one as my sonne was of it, though but for a tast of the Muses dish, a gentle touch of the verge of their garment. I, but is my Coach ready?