2 The Honest Whore (2 The Converted Courtesan) · chunk 20 of 47
Dekker, Thomas · published 1630 · first performed or written 1605 [1604-c.1605] (Annals) comedy · Prince Henry's Men unassigned nearest T23 Husbands, wives and jealousy · 478 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T23: wife, husband, cuckold, jealousy, woman, jealous, mistress, love, house, honest.
Faith then belike, Neither your clock nor mine does truly strike, And since it is uncertain which goes true, Better be false at one, then false at two. Y'are very pleasant, Madam. Yet not merry. Why Infaelice, what should make you sad? Nothing my Lord, but my false watch, pray tell me, You see, my clock, or yours is out of frame, Must we upon the Workman lay the blame, Or on yourselves that keep them? Faith on both. He may by knavery spoil them, we by sloth, But why talk you all riddle thus? I read Strange Comments in those margins of your looks: Your cheeks of late are (like bad printed Books) So dimly charactered, I scarce can spell, One line of love in them. Sure all's not well. All is not well indeed, my dearest Lord, Lock up thy gates of hearing, that no sound Of what I speak may enter. What means this? Or if my own tongue must myself betray, Count it a dream, or turn thine eyes away, And think me not thy wife. Why do you kneel? Earth is sin's cushion: when the sick soul feels herself growing poor, than she turns beggar, cries and kneels for help; Hipollito (for husband I dare not call thee) I have stolen that jewel of my chaste honour (which was only thine) and given it to a slave. Hah? On thy pillow adultery & lust have slept, thy Groom Hath climbed the unlawful tree, and plucked the sweets, A villain hath usurped a husband's sheets. 'Sdeath, who, (a Cuckold) who? This Irish Footman. Worse than damnation, a wild kern, a Frog, a Dog: whom I'll scarce spurn. Longed you for Shamrock? were it my father's father (heart) I'll kill him, although I take him on his deathbed gasping twixt heaven and hell; a shag-haired Cur? Bold Strumpet, why hangest thou on me? thinkst I'll be a Bawd to a Whore, because she's Noble? I beg but this, Set not my shame out to the world's broad eye, Yet let thy vengeance (like my fault) soar high, So it be in darkened clouds. Darkened! my horns Cannot be darkened, nor shall my revenge. A Harlot to my slave? the act is base, Common, but foul, so shall thy disgrace: Could not I feed your appetite? oh women You were created Angels, pure and fair; But since the first fell, tempting Devils you are, You should be men's bliss, but you prove their rods. Were there no women, men might live like gods: You ha' been too much down already, rise, Get from my sight, and henceforth shun my bed, I'll with no strumpet's breath be poisoned. As for your Irish Leprechaun, that spirit Whom by preposterous charms thy lust hath raised In a wrong Circle, him I'll damn more black Than any tyrant's soul. Hipollito?
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)
Faith then belike, Neither your clocke nor mine does truely strike, And since it is vncertaine which goes true, Better be false at one, then false at two. Y'are very pleasant, Madam. Yet not merry. Why Infaelice, what should make you sad? Nothing my Lord, but my false watch, pray tell me, You see, my clocke, or yours is out of frame, Must we vpon the Workeman lay the blame, Or on your selues that keepe them? Faith on both. He may by knauery spoile them, we by sloth, But why talke you all riddle thus? I read Strange Comments in those margines of your lookes: Your cheekes of late are (like bad printed Bookes) So dimly charactred, I scarce can spell, One line of loue in them. Sure all's not well. All is not well indeed, my dearest Lord, Locke vp thy gates of hearing, that no sound Of what I speake ma enter. What meanes this? Or if my owne tongue must my selfe betray, Count it a dreame, or turne thine eyes away, And thinke me not thy wife. Why doe you kneele? Earth is sinnes cushion: when the sicke soule feeles her selfe growing poore, then she turnes begger, cryes and kneeles for helpe; Hipollito (for husband I dare not call thee) I haue slolne that Iewell of my chaste honour (which was onely thine) and giuen it to a slaue. Hah? On thy pillow adultery & lust haue slpt, thy Groome Hath climbed the vnlawfull tree, and pluckt the sweets, A villaine hath vsurped a husbands sheetes. S'death, who, (a Cuckold) who? This Irish Footman. Worse then damnation, a wild Kerne, a Frogge, a Dog: whom Ile scarce spurne. Longed you for Shamocke? were it my fathers father (heart) Ile kill him, although I take him on his death-bed gasping 'twixt heauen and hell; a shag-haired Cur? Bold Strumpet, why hangest thou on me? thinkst Ile be a Bawde to a Whore, because she's Noble? I beg but this, Set not my shame out to the worlds broad eye, Yet let thy vengeance (like my fault) soare hye, So it be in darkned clowdes. Darkned! my hornes Cannot be darkned, nor shall my reuenge. A Harlot to my slaue? the act is base, Common, but foule, so shall thy disgrace: Could not I feed your appetite? oh women You were created Angels, pure and faire; But since the first fell, tempting Deuils you are, You should be mens blisse, but you proue their rods. Were there no women, men might liue like gods: You ha beene too much downe already, rise, Get from my sight, and henceforth shun my bed, Ile with no Strumpets breath be poysoned. As for your Irish Lubrican, that spirit Whom by prepostrous charmes thy lust hath raised In a wrong Circle, him Ile damne more blacke Then any Tyrants soule. Hipollito?