2 The Honest Whore (2 The Converted Courtesan) · chunk 6 of 47
Dekker, Thomas · published 1630 · first performed or written 1605 [1604-c.1605] (Annals) comedy · Prince Henry's Men unassigned nearest T45 Widows, wooing and remarriage · 485 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T45: widow, widows, hoord, master, gentlemen, wife, randalls, wit, mistress, married.
Is your wife then departed? She's an old dweller in those high Countries, Yet not from me, Here, she's here: but before me, when a Knave and a Quean are married, they commonly walk like Sergeants together: but a good couple are seldom parted. You had a Daughter too sir, had you not? Oh my Lord! this old Tree had one Branch, (and but one Branch growing out of it) It was young, it was fair, it was straight; I pruned it daily, dressed it carefully, kept it from the wind, helped it to the Sun, yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore Crabs; I hewed it down, What's become of it, I neither know, nor care. Then can I tell you what's become of it; That Branch is withered. So 'twas long ago. Her name I think was Bellafront, she's dead. Ha? dead? Yes, what of her was left, not worth the keeping, Even in my sight was thrown into a Grave. Dead! my last and best peace go with her, I see deaths a good trencherman, he can eat course homely meat, as well as the daintiest. Why, Friscabaldo, was she homely? O my Lord! a Strumpet is one of the devil's Vines; all the sins like so many Poles are stuck upright out of hell, to be her props, that she may spread upon them. And when she's ripe, every Slave has a pull at her, then must she be pressed. The young beautiful Grape sets the teeth of Lust on edge, yet to taste that liquorish Wine, is to drink a man's own damnation. Is she dead? she's turned to earth. Would she were turned to heaven; umh, is she dead! I am glad the world has lost one of his Idols; no Whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doors; In her grave sleep all my shame, and her own; and all my sorrows, and all her sins. I'm glad you are wax, not marble; you are made Of man's best temper, there are now good hopes That all these heaps of Ice about your heart, By which a father's love was frozen up, Are thawed in these sweet showers fetched from your eyes, We are ne'er like Angels till our passion dies, She is not dead, but lives under worse fate, I think she's poor, and more to clip her wings, Her Husband at this hour lies in the jail, For killing of a man, to save his blood, join all your force with mine: mine shall be shown, The getting of his life preserves your own. In my daughter you will say! does she live then? I am sorry I wasted tears upon a Harlot, but the best is I have a handkercher to drink them up, soap can wash them all out again. Is she poor? Trust me, I think she is.
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)
Is your wife then departed? She's an old dweller in those high Countries, Yet not from me, Here, she's here: but before me, when a Knaue and a Queane are married, they commonly walke like Serieants together: but a good couple are seldome parted. You had a Daughter too sir, had you not? Oh my Lord! this old Tree had one Branch, (and but one Branch growing out of it) It was young, it was faire, it was straight; I prumde it daily, drest it carefully, kept it from the winde, help'd it to the Sunne, yet for all my skill in planting, it grew crooked, it bore Crabs; I hewed it downe, What's become of it, I neither know, nor care. Then can I tell you whats become of it; That Branch is witherd. So 'twas long agoe. Her name I thinke was Bellafront, she's dead. Ha? dead? Yes, what of her was left, not worth the keeping, Euen in my sight was throwne into a Graue. Dead! my last and best peace goe with her, I see deaths a good trencherman, he can eat course homely meat, as well as the daintiest. Why, Friscabaldo, was she homely? O my Lord! a Strumpet is one of the Deuils Vines; all the sinnes like so many Poles are stucke vpright out of hell, to be her props, that she may spread vpon them. And when she's ripe, euery Slaue has a pull at her, then must she be prest. The yong beautifull Grape sets the teeth of Lust on edge, yet to taste that lickrish Wine, is to drinke a mans owne damnation. Is she dead? Shee's turned to earth. Wod she were turn'd to heauen; Vmh, is she dead! I am glad the world has lost one of his Idols; no Whoremonger will at midnight beat at the doores; In her graue sleepe all my shame, and her owne; and all my sorrowes, and all her sinnes. I'm glad you are wax, not marble; you are made Of mans best temper, there are now good hopes That all these heapes of Ice about your heart, By which a fathers loue was frozen vp, Are thawed in these sweet showres fetcht from your eyes, We are ne'r like Angels till our passion dyes, She is not dead, but liues vnder worse fate, I thinke she's poore, and more to clip her wings, Her Husband at this houre lies in the Iayle, For killing of a man, to saue his blood, Ioyne all your force with mine: mine shall be showne, The getting of his life preserues your owne. In my daughter you will say! does she liue then? I am sorry I wasted teares vpon a Harlot, but the best is I haue a handkercher to drinke them vp, sope can wash them all out agen. Is she poore? Trust me, I thinke she is.