Middleton, Thomas · published 1630 · first performed or written 1613 (Annals) comedy · Lady Elizabeth's Men · Swan unassigned nearest T23 Husbands, wives and jealousy · 498 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T23: wife, husband, cuckold, jealousy, woman, jealous, mistress, love, house, honest.
We never use, you forget sickness then, And Physic times: Is't not a place for easement? O Death! do I hear this with part Of former life in me? What's the news now? Troth worse & worse, you're like to lose your land If the Law save your life Sir, or the Surgeon. Hark you there Wife. Why how Sir? Sir Oliver Kix's Wife is new quickened, That Child undoes you Sir. All ill at once. I wonder what he makes here with his consorts? Cannot our House be private to ourselves, But we must have such Guests? I pray depart Sirs, And take your Murderer along with you, Good he were apprehended ere he go, H'as killed some honest Gentleman, send for Officers. I'll soon save you that labour. I must tell you Sir, You have been somewhat boulder in my House, Than I could well like of, I suffered you Till it stuck here at my Heart, I tell you truly I thought you had been familiar with my Wife once. With me? I'll see him hanged first, I defy him, And all such Gentlemen in the like extremity. If ever Eyes were open, these are they, gamesters farewell, I have nothing left to play. And therefore get you gone Sir. Of all Wittols, Be thou the Head. Thou the grand whore of spitals. So, since he's like now to be rid of all, I am right glad, I am so well rid of him. I knew he durst not stay, when you named Officers That stopped his Spirits straight, What shall we do now Wife? As we were wont to do. We are richly furnished wife, with householdstuff Let's let out Lodgings then, And take a House in the Strand. In troth a match Wench: We are simply stocked, with Cloth of Tissue cushions, To furnish out bay-windows: Push, what not that's quaint And costly, from the top to the bottom: Life, for Furniture, we may lodge a Countess: There's a close-stool of tawny Velvet too, Now I think on't Wife. There's that should be Sir, Your Nose must be in every thing. I have done Wench, And let this stand in every Gallants Chamber, There's no Gamester like a politic sinner, For whoe'er games, the Box is sure a winner. O Husband, husband, she will die, she will die There is no sign but death. 'Twill be our shame then. O how she's changed in compass of an hour: Ah my poor girl! good faith thou wert too cruel To drag her by the Hair. You would have done as much Sir, To curb her of her humour. 'Tis curbed sweetly, she catched her bane o'th' water. How now Tim. Faith busy Mother about an Epitaph, Upon my sister's death. Death! She is not dead I hope? No: but she means to be, and that's as good, And when a thing's done, 'tis done, You taught me that Mother. What is your Tutor doing?
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)
We neuer vſe, you forget ſickneſſe then, And Phyſicke times: Iſt not a place for eaſement? O Death! doe I heare this with part Of former life in me? What's the newes now? Troth worſe & worſe, you'r like to loſe your land If the Law ſaue your life Sir, or the Surgeon. Harke you there Wife. Why how Sir? Sr Oliuer Kixes Wife is new quickned, That Child vndoes you Sir. All ill at once. I wonder what he makes here with his conſorts? Cannot our Houſe be priuate to our ſelues, But we muſt haue ſuch Gueſts? I pray depart Sirs, And take your Murtherer along with you, Good he were apprehended ere he goe, H'as kild ſome honeſt Gentleman, ſend for Officers. I'le ſoone ſaue you that labour. I muſt tell you Sir, You haue beene ſome-what boulder in my Houſe, Then I could well like of, I ſuffred you Till it ſtucke here at my Heart, I tell you truly I thought you had beene familiar with my Wife once. With me? I'le ſee him hang'd firſt, I defie him, And all ſuch Gentlemen in the like extremitie. If euer Eyes were open, theſe are they, Gamſters farewell, I haue nothing left to play. And therefore get you gone Sir. Of all Wittalles, Be thou the Head. Thou the grand whore of Spittles. So, ſince he's like now to be rid of all, I am right glad, I am ſo well rid of him. I knew he durſt not ſtay, when you nam'd Officers That ſtop't his Spirits ſtraight, What ſhall we doe now Wife? As we were wont to doe. We are richly furniſh't wife, with Houſhold-ſtuffe Let's let out Lodgings then, And take a Houſe in the Strand. In troth a match Wench: We are ſimply ſtock't, with Cloath of Tiſſue Cuſſions, To furniſh out bay-windows: Puſh, what not that's queint And coſtly, from the top to the bottome: Life, for Furniture, we may lodge a Counteſſe: There's a Cloaſe-ſtoole of tawny Veluet too, Now I thinke on't Wife. There's that ſhould be Sir, Your Noſe muſt be in euerie thing. I haue done Wench, And let this ſtand in euerie Gallants Chamber, There's no Gamſter like a politike ſinner, For who e're games, the Box is ſure a winner. O Husband, husband, ſhe will dye, ſhe will dye There is no ſigne but death. 'Twill be our ſhame then. O how ſhe's chang'd in compaſſe of an houre: Ah my poore girle! good faith thou wert too cruell To dragge her by the Hayre. You would haue done as much Sir, To curbe her of her humor. 'Tis curb'd ſweetly, ſhe catch't her bane o'th water. How now Tim. Faith buſie Mother about an Epitaph, Vpon my Siſters death. Death! She is not dead I hope? No: but ſhe meanes to be, and that's as good, And when a thing's done, 'tis done, You taught me that Mother. What is your Tutor doing?