2 The Honest Whore (2 The Converted Courtesan) · chunk 27 of 47
Dekker, Thomas · published 1630 · first performed or written 1605 [1604-c.1605] (Annals) comedy · Prince Henry's Men unassigned nearest T13 Knights, squires and ladies · 487 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T13: knight, raph, lady, knights, george, master, squire, rafe, pray, god.
And I have played a Gentleman's part with my tailor, for I owe him for the making of it. And why did you so, sir? To keep the fashion; It's your only fashion now of your best rank of Gallants, to make their Tailors wait for their money, neither were it wisdom indeed to pay them upon the first edition of a new suit: for commonly the suit is owing for, when the linings are worn out, and there's no reason then, that the tailor should be paid before the Mercer. Is this the suit the Knight bestowed upon you? This is the suit, and I need not shame to wear it, for better men than I would be glad to have suits bestowed on them. It's a generous fellow,— but— pox on him— we whose Pericranions are the very Limbecks and Stillatories of good wit, and fly high, must drive liquour out of stale gaping Oysters. Shallow Knight, poor Squire Tinacheo: I'll make a wild Captain of forty such: hang him, he's an Ass, he's always sober. This is your fault to wound your friends still. No faith, Front, Lodovico is a noble Slavonian: it's more rare to see him in a woman's company, then for a Spaniard to go into England, and to challenge the English Fencers there.— One knocks,— See— La, fa, sol, la, fa, la, rustle in Silks and Satins: there's music in this, and a Taffety Petticoat, it make both fly high,— Catzo. Matheo? 'tis my Father. Ha, Father? It's no matter, he finds no tattered Prodigals here. Is not the door good enough to hold your blue Coats? away, Knaves. Wear not your clothes threadbare at knees for me; beg heaven's blessing, (not mine.) Oh cry your Worship mercy, sir, was somewhat bold to talk to this Gentlewoman, your wife here. A poor Gentlewoman, sir. Stand not, sir, bore to me; I ha' read oft That Serpents who creep low, belch ranker poison That winged Dragons do, that fly aloft. If it offend you, sir? 'tis for my pleasure. Your pleasure be't, sir; umh, is this your Palace? Yes, and our Kingdom, for 'tis our content. It's a very poor Kingdom then; what, are all your Subjects gone a Sheepshearing? not a Maid? not a Man? not so much as a Cat? you keep a good house belike, just like one of your profession, every room with bare walls, and a half-headed bed to vault upon (as all your bawdy-houses are.) Pray who are your Upholsters? Oh, the Spider. I see, they bestow hangings upon you. Bawdy-house? Zounds sir— Oh sweet Matheo, peace. Upon my knees I do beseech you, sir, not to arraign me For sins, which heaven, I hope, long since hath pardoned. Those flames (like lightning flashes) are so spent, The heat no more remains, then where ships went, Or where birds cut the air, the print remains.
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)
And I haue plaid a Gentlemans part with my Taylor, for I owe him for the making of it. And why did you so, sir? To keepe the fashion; It's your onely fashion now of your best ranke of Gallants, to make their Taylors waite for their money, neither were it wisedome indeed to pay them vpon the first edition of a new suite: for commonly the suite is owing for, when the lynings are worne out, and there's no reason then, that the Taylor should be paid before the Mercer. Is this the suite the Knight bestowed vpon you? This is the suite, and I need not shame to weare it, for better men then I would be glad to haue suites bestowed on them. It's a generous fellow,—but—pox on him—we whose Pericranions are the very Limbecks and Stillitories of good wit, and flie hie, must driue liquor out of stale gaping Oysters. Shallow Knight, poore Squire Tinacheo: Ile make a wild Cataine of forty such: hang him, he's an Asse, he's alwaies sober. This is your fault to wound your friends still. No faith, Front, Lodouico is a noble Slauonian: it's more rare to see him in a womans company, then for a Spaniard to goe into England, and to challenge the English Fencers there.—One knockes,—See—La, fa, sol, la, fa, la, rustle in Silkes and Satins: there's musique in this, and a Taffety Petticoate, it make both flie hie,—Catzo. Matheo? 'tis my Father. Ha, Father? It's no matter, hee findes no tatterd Prodigals here. Is not the doore good enough to hold your blue Coates? away, Knaues. Weare not your cloathes thred-bare at knees for me; beg Heauens blessing, (not mine.) Oh cry your Worship mercy, sir, was somewhat bold to talke to this Gentlewoman, your wife here. A poore Gentlewoman, sir. Stand not, sir, bare to me; I ha read oft That Serpents who creepe low, belch ranker poison That winged Dragons doe, that flie aloft. If it offend you, sir? 'tis for my pleasure. Your pleasure be't, sir; vmh, is this your Palace? Yes, and our Kingdome, for 'tis our content. It's a very poore Kingdome then; what, are all your Subiects gone a Sheepe-shearing? not a Maid? not a Man? not so much as a Cat? you keepe a good house belike, iust like one of your profession, euery roome with bare walls, and a halfe-headed bed to vault vpon (as all your bawdyhouses are.) Pray who are your Vpholsters? Oh, the Spider. I see, they bestow hangings vpon you. Bawdy-house? Zounds sir— Oh sweet Matheo, peace. Vpon my knees I doe beseech you, sir, not to arraigne me For sinnes, which heauen, I hope, long since hath pardoned. Those flames (like lightning flashes) are so spent, The heate no more remaines, then where ships went, Or where birds cut the aire, the print remaines.