2 The Honest Whore (2 The Converted Courtesan) · chunk 5 of 47
Dekker, Thomas · published 1630 · first performed or written 1605 [1604-c.1605] (Annals) comedy · Prince Henry's Men unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 497 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
Oh sir, our friends! they ought to be unto us as our jewels, as dearly valued, being locked up, & unseen, as when we wear them in our hands. I see, Friscabaldo, age hath not command of your blood, for all Times sickle has gone over you, you are Orlando still. Why my Lord, are not the fields mown and cut down, and stripped bare, and yet wear they not pied coats again? though my head be like a Leek, white: may not my heart be like the blade, green? Scarce can I read the Stories on your brow, Which age hath writ there, you look youthful still. I eat Snakes, my Lord, I eat Snakes. My heart shall never have a wrinkle in it, so long as I can cry Hem with a clear voice. You are the happier man, sir. Happy man! I'll give you (my Lord) the true picture of a happy man; I was turning leaves over this morning, and found it, an excellent Italian Painter drew it, If I have it in the right colours, I'll bestow it on your Lordship. I stay for it. He that makes gold his wife, but not his whore, He that at noonday walks by a prison door, He that i'th' Sun is neither beam nor moat, He that's not mad after a Petticoat, He for whom poor men's curses dig no grave, He that is neither Lords nor lawyer's slave, He that makes This his Sea, and That his Shore, He that in's Coffin is richer than before, He that counts Youth his Sword, and Age his Staff, He whose right hand carves his own Epitaph, He that upon his death-bed is a Swan, And Dead, no Crow, he is a happy man. It's very well, I thank you for this Picture. After this Picture (my Lord) do I strive to have my face drawn: For I am not covetous, Am not in debt, Sit neither at the Duke's side, Nor lie at his feet. Wenching and I have done, no man I wrong, No man I fear, no man I fee; I take heed how far I walk, because I know yonder's my home. I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away save a winding sheet: But like a good man, to leave Orlando behind me. I sowed leaves in my Youth, and I reap now Books in my Age. I fill this hand, and empty this, and when the bell shall toll for me, if I prove a Swan & go singing to my nest, why so? If a Crow! throw me out for carrion, & pick out mine eyes, May not old Friscabaldo (my Lord) be merry now! ha? You may, would I were partner in your mirth. I have a little, Have all things; I have nothing; I have no wife, I have no child, have no chick, and why should not I be in my jocundare?
seed 43: T9 · seed 44: T10 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Oh sir, our friēds! they ought to be vnto vs as our Iewels, as dearely valued, being locked vp, & vnseene, as when we weare them in our hands. I see, Friscabaldo, age hath not command of your blood, for all Times sickle has gone ouer you, you are Orlando still. Why my Lord, are not the fields mowen and cut downe, and stript bare, and yet weare they not pide coates againe? tho my head be like a Leeke, white: may not my heart be like the blade, greene? Scarce can I read the Stories on your brow, Which age hath writ there, you looke youthfull still. I eate Snakes, my Lord, I eate Snakes. My heart shall neuer haue a wrinkle in it, so long as I can cry Hem with a cleare voice. You are the happier man, sir. Happy man! Ile giue you (my Lord) the true picture of a happy man; I was turning leaues ouer this morning, and found it, an excellent Italian Painter drew it, If I haue it in the right colours, Ile bestow it on your Lordship. I stay for it. He that makes gold his wife, but not his whore, He that at noone-day walkes by a prison doore, He that 'ith Sunne is neither beame nor moate, He that's not mad after a Petticoate, He for whom poore mens curses dig no graue, He that is neither Lords nor Lawyers slaue, He that makes This his Sea, and That his Shore, He that in's Coffin is richer then before, He that counts Youth his Sword, and Age his Staffe, He whose right hand carues his owne Epitaph, He that vpon his death-bead is a Swan, And Dead, no Crow, he is a happy man. It's very well, I thanke you for this Picture. After this Picture (my Lord) doe I striue to haue my face drawne: For I am not couetous, Am not in debt, Sit neither at the Dukes side, Nor lie at his feete. Wenching and I haue done, no man I wrong, No man I feare, no man I fee; I take heed how farre I walke, because I know yonders my home. I would not die like a rich man, to carry nothing away saue a winding sheete: But like a good man, to leaue Orlando behind me. I sowed leaues in my Youth, and I reape now Bookes in my Age. I fill this hand, and empty this, and when the bell shall toll for me, if I proue a Swan & go singing to my nest, why so? If a Crow! throw me out for carrion, & pick out mine eyes, May not old Friscabaldo (my Lord) be merry now! ha? You may, would I were partner in your mirth. I haue a little, Haue all things; I haue nothing; I haue no wife, I haue no child, haue no chick, and why should not I be in my Iocundare?