2 The Honest Whore (2 The Converted Courtesan) · chunk 21 of 47
Dekker, Thomas · published 1630 · first performed or written 1605 [1604-c.1605] (Annals) comedy · Prince Henry's Men unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 479 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
Tell me, didst thou bait Hawks to draw him to thee, or did he bewitch thee? The slave did woo me. Two woes in that screech-owl's language? Oh who would trust your cork-heeled sex? I think to sate your lust, you would love a Horse, a Bear, a croaking Toad, so your hot itching veins might have their bound, than the wild Irish Dart was thrown. Come, how? the manner of this fight. 'Twas thus, he gave me this battery first. Oh I Mistake, believe me, all this in beaten gold: Yet I held out, but at length this was charmed. What? change your Diamond wench, the act is base, Common, but foul, so shall not your disgrace: Could not I feed your appetite? Oh Men, You were created Angels, pure and fair, But since the first fell, worse than Devils you are. You should our shields be, but you prove our rods. Were there no Men, Women might live like gods. Guilty my Lord? Yes, guilty my good Lady. Nay, you may laugh, but henceforth shun my bed, With no whores leavings I'll be poisoned. o'erreached so finely? 'Tis the very Diamond And Letter which I sent: this villainy Some Spider closely weaves, whose poisoned bulk I must let forth. Who's there without? My Lord calls. Send me the Footman. Call the Footman to my Lord. It can be no man else, that Irish Iudas, Bred in a Country where no venom prospers, But in the nation's blood hath thus betrayed me. Slave, get you from your service. Faat meanest thou by this now? Question me not, nor tempt my fury, villain, Couldst thou turn all the Mountains in the land, To hills of gold, and to give me; here thou stayest not. I faat, I care not. Prate not, but get thee gone, I shall send else. ay, do prithee, I had rather have thee make a scabbard of my guts, and let out all de Irish puddings in my poor belly, den to be a false knave to de I faat, I will never see dine own sweet face more. A mawhid dear a gra, fare de well, fare de well, I will go steal Cowes again in Ireland. He's damned that raised this whirlwind, which hath blown Into her eyes this jealousy: yet I'll on, I'll on, stood armed Devils staring in my face, To be pursued in flight, quickens the race, Shall my blood streams by a wife's lust be bar? Fond woman, no: Iron grows by strokes more hard, Lawless desires are seas scorning all bounds, Or sulphur which being rammed up, more confounds, Struggling with mad men, madness nothing tames, Winds wrestling with great fires, incense the flames. How now, what ails your Master? Has taken a younger brother's purge, forsooth, and that works with him. Where is his Cloak and Rapier?
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T30 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Tell me, didst thou baite Hawkes to draw him to thee, or did he bewitch thee? The slaue did woo me. Two wooes in that Skreech-owles language? Oh who would trust your corcke-heeld sex? I thinke to sate your lust, you would loue a Horse, a Beare, a croaking Toade, so your hot itching veines might haue their bound, then the wild Irish Dart was throwne. Come, how? the manner of this fight. 'Twas thus, he gaue me this battery first. Oh I Mistake, beleeue me, all this in beaten gold: Yet I held out, but at length this was charm'd. What? change your Diamond wench, the act is base, Common, but foule, so shall not your disgrace: Could not I feed your appetite? Oh Men, You were created Augels, pure and faire, But since the first fell, worse then Deuils you are. You should our shields be, but you proue our rods. Were there no Men, Women might liue like gods. Guilty my Lord? Yes, guilty my good Lady. Nay, you may laugh, but henceforth shun my bed, With no whores leauings Ile be poysoned. O're-reach'd so finely? 'Tis the very Diamond And Letter which I sent: this villany Some Spider closely weaues, whose poysond bulke I must let forth. Who's there without? My Lord calls. Send me the Footman. Call the Footman to my Lord. It can be no man else, that Irish Iudas, Bred in a Country where no venom prospers, But in the Nations blood hath thus betraid me. Slaue, get you from your seruice. Faat meanest thou by this now? Question me not, nor tempt my fury, villaine, Couldst thou turne all the Mountaines in the land, To hills of gold, and to giue me; here thou stayest not. I faat, I care not. Prate not, but get thee gone, I shall send else. I, doe predy, I had rather haue thee make a scabbard of my guts, and let out all de Irish puddings in my poore belly, den to be a false knaue to de I faat, I will neuer see dyne own sweet face more. A mawhid deer a gra, fare de well, fare de well, I wil goe steale Cowes agen in Ireland. He's damn'd that rais'd this whirlewind, which hath blowne Into her eyes this iealousie: yet Ile on, Ile on, stood armed Deuils staring in my face, To be pursued in flight, quickens the race, Shall my blood streames by a wiues lust be bard? Fond woman, no: Iron growes by strokes more hard, Lawlesse desires are seas scorning all bounds, Or sulphure which being ram'd vp, more confounds, Strugling with mad men, madnes nothing tames, Winds wrastling with great fires, incense the flames. How now, what ayles your Master? Has taken a yonger brothers purge, forsooth, and that workes with him. Where is his Cloake and Rapier?