Jonson, Ben · published 1631 · first performed or written 1614 [Oct 31] (Annals) comedy · Lady Elizabeth's Men unassigned nearest T23 Husbands, wives and jealousy · 427 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T23: wife, husband, cuckold, jealousy, woman, jealous, mistress, love, house, honest.
Come, indeed lafoy, you are such a fool, still! Not, but halfe a one, Win, you are the t'other half: man and wife make one fool, Win. (Good!) Is there the Proctor, or Doctor indeed, i'the Diocese, that ever had the fortune to win him such a Win! (There I am again!) I do feel conceits coming upon me, more than I am able to turn tongue too. A pox o' these pretenders, to wit! your Three Cranes, Mitre, and Mermaid men! Not a corn of true salt, nor a grain of right mustard amongst them all. They may stand for places or so, again the next Wit fall, and pay two pence in a quart more for their Canary, than other men. But give me the man, can start up a justice of Wit out of six-shillings bear, and give the law to all the Poets, and Poet-suckers i' Town, because they are the Player's Gossips? 'Slid, other men have wives as fine as the Players, and as well dressed. Come hither, Win. WHy, how now Master Little-wit! measuring of lips? or moulding of kisses? which is it? Troth I am a little taken with my Wins dressing here! Dost not fine Master Win-wife? How do you apprehended, Sir? She would not ha' worn this habit. I challenge all Cheapside, to show such another: Morefields, Pimlico path, or the Exchange, in a summer evening, with a Lace to boot as this has. Dear Win, let Master Win-wife kiss you. He comes a wooing to our mother Win, and may be our father perhaps, Win. There's no harm in him, Win. None i'the earth, Master Little-wit. ●enuy no man, my delicates, Sir. Alas, you ha' the garden where they grow still! A wife here with a Strawberry-breath, Cherry-lips, Apricot-cheeks, and a soft velvet head, like a Melicotton. Good ye faith! now dulness upon me, that I had not that before him, that I should not light on't, as well as he! Velvet head! But my taste, Master Little-wit, tends to fruit of a later kind: the sober Matron, your wife's mother. I! we know you are a Suitor, Sir. Win, and I both, wish you well: by this Licencc here, would you had her, that your two names were as fast in it, as here are a couple. Win would feign have a fine young father i' law, with a feather: that her mother might hood it, and chain it, with Mistress Overdoo. But, you do not take the right course, Master Win-wife. Not? Master Littlewit, why?
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)
Come, indeede la, you are ſuch a foole, ſtill! No, but halfe a one, Win, you are the tother halfe: man and wife make one foole, Win. (Good!) Is there the Proctor, or Doctor indeed, i'the Dioceſſe, that euer had the fortune to win him ſuch a Win! (There I am againe!) I doe feele conceits comming vpon mee, more then I am able to turne tongue too. A poxe o' theſe pretenders, to wit! your Three Cranes, Miter, and Mermaid men! Not a corne of true ſalt, nor a graine of right muſtard amongſt them all. They may ſtand for places or ſo, againe the next Wit fall, and pay two pence in a quart more for their Canary, then other men. But gi' mee the man, can ſtart vp a Iuſtice of Wit out of ſix-ſhillings beare, and giue the law to all the Poets, and Poet-ſuckers i' Towne, becauſe they are the Players Goſſips? 'Slid, other men haue wiues as fine as the Players, and as well dreſt. Come hither, Win. VVHy, how now Maſter Little-wit! meaſuring of lips? or molding of kiſſes? which is it? Troth I am a little taken with my Wins dreſſing here! Do'ſt not fine Maſter Win-wife? How doe you apprehend, Sir? Shee would not ha' worne this habit. I challenge all Cheapſide, to ſhew ſuch another: Morefields, Pimlico path, or the Exchange, in a ſommer euening, with a Lace to boot as this has. Deare Win, let Maſter Win-wife kiſſe you. Hee comes a wooing to our mother Win, and may be our father perhaps, Win. There's no harme in him, Win. None i'the earth, Maſter Little-wit. enuy no man, my delicates, Sir. Alas, you ha' the garden where they grow ſtill! A wife heere with a Strawbery-breath, Chery-lips, Apricot-cheekes, and a ſoft veluet head, like a Melicotton. Good y' faith! now dulneſſe vpon mee, that I had not that before him, that I ſhould not light on't, as well as he! Veluet head! But my taſte, Maſter Little-wit, tends to fruict of a later kinde: the ſober Matron, your wiues mother. I! wee know you are a Suitor, Sir. Win, and I both, wiſh you well: by this Licencc here, would you had her, that your two names were as faſt in it, as here are a couple. Win would faine haue a fine young father i' law, with a fether: that her mother might hood it, and chaine it, with Miſtris Ouer-doo. But, you doe not take the right courſe, Maſter Win-wife. No? Maſter Litle-wit, why?