Ford, John · published 1629 · first performed or written 1628 [licensed for stage, Nov 24] (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men · Globe T11 Siblings, kin and confidants typicality 0.72 · 511 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T11: sister, brother, love, friend, heart, father, mother, woman, lord, hear.
Sure thou art weary of this sullen living, But I am not; for I take more content In my obedience here, than all delights The time presents elsewhere. Menander within. Oh! Dost hear that groan? Hear it? I shudder, it was a strong blast, young Mistress, able to root up heart, liver, lungs and all. My much-wronged Father: let me view his face. Lady Mistress, shall I fetch a Barbour to steal away his rough beard, whiles he sleeps in's naps? He never looks in a glass, and 'tis high time on conscience for him to be trimmed, has not been under the shaver's hand almost these four years. Peace, fool. I could clip the old Ruffian, there's hair enough to stuff all the great Codpieces in Switzerland. A begins to stir, a stirs. Bless us how his eyes roll. A good year keep your Lordship in your right wits, I beseech ye. Cleophila? Sir, I am here, how d''ee Sir? Sir, is your stomach up yet? get some warm porridge in your belly, 'tis a very good settle-brain. The Raven croaked, and hollow shrieks of Owls Sung Dirges at her funeral; I laughed The whiles: for 'twas no boot to weep. The Girl Was fresh and full of youth: but, O the cunning Of Tyrants that look big, their very frowns Doom poor souls guilty, ere their cause be heard. Good. What art thou, and thou? I am Cleophila, Your woeful daughter. I am Trollia your honest implement. I know ye both. 'las, why d''ee use me thus! Thy Sister, my Eroclea, was so gentle, That Turtles in their Down do feed more gall, Than her spleen mixed with: yet when winds and storm Drive dirt and dust on banks of spotless snow, The purest whiteness is no such defence Against the sullying foulness of that fury. So raved Agenor, that great man, mischief Against the Girl— 'twas a politic trick, We were too old in Honour.— I am lean And fall'n away extremely; most assuredly I have not dined these three days. Will you now, Sir? I beseech ye heartily Sir. I feel a horrible puking myself. Am I stark mad? No, no, you are but a little staring— there's difference between staring and stark mad. You are but whimsied, yet crotcheted, conumndrummed, or so. Here's all my care: and I do often sigh For thee, Cleophyla: we are secluded From all good people. But take heed, Amethus Was son to Doryla, Agenor's Sister. There's some ill blood about him, if the Surgeon Have not been very skilful to let all out. I am (alas) too grieved to think of love, That must concern me least. Sirrah, be wise, be wise. Who I? I will be monstrous and wise immediately. Welcome, Gentlemen, the more the merrier, I'll lay the cloth, and set the stools in a readiness, for I see here is some hope of dinner now. My Lord Meleander, Menaphon your Kinsman Newly returned from travail, comes to tender His duty t'ee: to you his love, fair Mistress.
nodes 830–882 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 14 of 36 in this edition
Length
511 words · 737 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T11 — Siblings, kin and confidantscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.723 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T15 · seed 44: T12 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Sure thou art weary of this sullen liuing, But I am not; for I take more content In my obedience here, then all delights The time presents elsewhere. Menander within. Oh! Do'st heare that groane? Heare it? I shudder, it was a strong blast, young Mistris, able to roote vp heart, liuer, lungs and all. My much-wrong'd Father: let me view his face. Lady Mistris, shall I fetch a Barbour to steale away his rough beard, whiles he sleepes in's naps? He neuer lookes in a glasse, and tis high time on conscience for him to bee trimd, has not been vnder the Shauers hand almost these foure yeeres. Peace, foole. I could clip the old Ruffian, there's haire enough to stuffe all the great Codpieces in Switzerland. A begins to stirre, a stirres. Blesse vs how his eyes rowle. A good yeere keepe your Lordship in your right wits, I beseech yee. Cleophila? Sir, I am here, how d'ee Sir? Sir, is your stomacke vp yet? get some warme porredge in your belly, 'tis a very good settle-braine. The Rauen croakt, and hollow shreeks of Owles Sung Dirges at her funerall; I laugh'd The whiles: for twas no boot to weepe. The Girle Was fresh and full of youth: but, O the cunning Of Tyrants that looke bigge, their very frownes Doome poore soules guilty, ere their cause be heard. Good. What art thou, and thou? I am Cleophila, Your wofull daughter. I am Trollia your honest implement. I know yee both. 'las, why d'ee vse me thus! Thy Sister, my Eroclea, was so gentle, That Turtles in their Downe doe feed more gall, Then her spleene mixt with: yet when winds and storme Driue dirt and dust on banks of spotlesse snow, The purest whitenesse is no such defence Against the sullying foulenesse of that fury. So rau'd Agenor, that great man, mischiefe Against the Girle—'twas a politick tricke, We were too old in Honour.—I am leane And falne away extremely; most assuredly I haue not dyn'd these three dayes. Will you now, Sir? I beseech yee heartily Sir. I feele a horrible puking my selfe. Am I starke mad? No, no, you are but a little staring—there's difference betweene staring and starke mad. You are but whymsed, yet crotchetted, conundroun'd, or so. Here's all my care: and I doe often sigh For thee, Cleophyla: we are secluded From all good people. But take heed, Amethus Was sonne to Doryla, Agenors Sister. There's some ill blood about him, if the Surgeon Haue not been very skilfull to let all out. I am (alas) too grieu'd to thinke of loue, That must concerne me least. Sirra, be wise, be wise. Who I? I will be monstrous and wise immediately. Welcome, Gentlemen, the more the merrier, Ile lay the cloth, and set the stooles in a readinesse, for I see here is some hope of dinner now. My Lord Meleander, Menaphon your Kinsman Newly return'd from trauaile, comes to tender His duty t'ee: to you his loue, faire Mistris.