Jonson, Ben · published 1631 · first performed or written 1629 [licensed for stage, Jan 19] (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T33 Fathers, daughters and marriage negotiat · 522 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T33: daughter, marriage, father, love, davus, matter, son, chremes, wife, mother.
I did good Mr, and I crave your pardon. But 'tis my daughter, and a girl. Why saidst thou It was a boy, and sold'st him then, to me With such entreaty, for ten shillings, Carlin? Because you were a charitable man I heard, good Mr, and would breed him well, I would ha' given him you, for nothing, gladly. Forgive the lie o' my mouth, it was to save The fruit o' my womb. A parents needs are urgent. And few do know that tyrant o'er good natures. But you relieved her, and me too, the Mother, And took me into your house to be the nurse, For which heaven heap all blessings on your head, Whilst there can one be added. Sure thou speakst Quite like another creature, than thouhast lived, Here, i'the house, a Shelee-neen Thomas, An Irish beggar. So I am, God help me. What art thou? tell, The match is a good match, For aught I see: ring the bells once a gain. Stint, I say, Fiddlers. No going off my Lord. Nor coming on sweet Lady, things thus standing! But what's the heinousness of my offence? Or the degrees of wrong you suffered by it? In having your daughter matched thus happily, Into a noble house, a brave young blood, And a prime peer o'the Realm? Was that your plot, Fly? Gi' me a cloak, take her again among you. I'll none of your light-Heart fosterlings, no Inmates, Suppositions fruits of an Host's brain, And his flies hatching, to be put upon me. There is a royal Court o'the Star-chamber Will scatter all these mists, disperse these vapours, And clear the truth. Let beggars match with beggars. That shall decide it, I will try it there. Nay then my Lord, It's not enough, I see You are licentious, but you will be wicked. Yo' are not alone content to take my daughter, Against the law; but having taken her, You would repudiate, and cast her off, Now, at your pleasure, like a beast of power, Without all cause, or colour of a cause, That, or a noble, or an honest man, Should dare t'except against, her poverty. Is poverty a vice? Th'age counts it so. God help your Lordship, and your peers that think so, If any be: if not, God bless them all, And help the number o'the virtuous, If poverty be a crime. You may object Our beggary to us, as an accident, But never deeper, no inherent baseness. And I must tell you, now, young Lord of dirt, As an incensed mother, she hath more, And better blood, running i'those small veins, Than all the race of Beaufort's have in mass, Though they distil their drops from the left rib Of Iohn O' Gaunt. Old mother o' records, Thou know'st her pedigree, then: whose daughter is she? The daughter and coheir to the Lord Frampul, This lady's sister! Mine? what is her name? Laetitia. That was lost? The true Latitia. Sister, O gladness! Then you are our mother? I am, dear daughter. On my knees, I bless The light I see you by.
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)
I did good Mr, and I raue your pardon. But 'tis my daughter, and a grle. Why sayd'st thou It was a boy, and sold'st him then, to me With such entreaty, for ten sillings, Carlin? Because you were a charitable man I eard, good Mr, and would bred him well, I would ha' giu'n him you, for nothing, gladly. Forgiue the lie o' my mouth, it was to saue The fruit o' my wombe. A parents needs are vrgent. And few doe know that tyrant o're good natures. But you relieu'd her, and me too, the Mother, And tooke me into your house to be the nurse, For which heauen heape all blessings on your head, Whilst there can one be added. Surethou speakst Quite like another creature, then th'hast liu'd, Here, i'the house, a Shelee-neen Thomas, An Irish beggar. So I am, God helpe me. What art thou? tell, The match is a good match, For ought I see: ring the bels once a gaine. Stint, I say, Fidlers. No going off my Lord. Nor comming on sweet Lady, things thus standing! But what's the haynousnesse of my offence? Or the degrees of wrong you suffer'd by it? In hauing your daughter match't thus happily, Into a noble house, a braue yong blood, And a prime peere o'the Realme? Was that your plot, Fly? Gi' me a cloak, take her againe among you. Ile none of your light-Heart fosterlings, no Inmates, Supposititious fruits of an Host's brane, And his Flys hatching, to be put vpon me. There is a royall Court o'the Star-chamber Will scatter all these mists, disperse these vapours, And cleare the truth. Let beggers match with beggers. That shall decide it, I will try it there. Nay then my Lord, Its not enough, I see You are licentious, but you will be wicked. Yo' are not alone content to take my daughter, Against the law; but hauing taken her, You would repudiate, and cast her off, Now, at your pleasure, like a beast of power, Without all cause, or colour of a cause, That, or a noble, or an honest man, Should dare t'except against, her pouerty. Is pouerty a vice? Th'age counts it so. God helpe your Lordship, and your peeres that think so, If any be: if not, God blesse them all, And helpe the number o'the vertuous, If pouerty be a crime. You may obiect Our beggery to vs, as an accident, But neuer deeper, no inherent basenesse. And I must tell you, now, yong Lord of durt, As an incensed mother, she hat more, And beter blood, running i'those small veines, Then all the race of Beauforts haue in masse, Though they distill their drops from the left rib Of Iohn O' Gaunt. Old mother o' records, Thou know'st her pedegree, then: whose daughter is she? The daughter and coheire to the Lord Frampll, This Ladies sister! Mine? what is her name? Laetitia. That was lost? The true Latitia. Sister, O gladnesse! Then you are our mother? I am, deare daughter. On my knees, I blesse The light I see you by.