Jonson, Ben · published 1631 · first performed or written 1614 [Oct 31] (Annals) comedy · Lady Elizabeth's Men unassigned nearest T44 Drinking: wine, ale and taverns · 516 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T44: drink, wine, numps, ale, butler, pot, sing, moy, drunk, win.
Why? would my Booth ha' broke, if they had fallen out in't? Sir? or would their heat ha' fired it? in, you Rogue, and wipe the pigs, and mend the fire, that they fall not, or I'll both baste and roast you, till your eyes drop out, like 'hem. (Leave the bottle behind you, and be cursed a while.) Body o'the Fair! what's this? mother o'the Bawds? Not, she's mother o'the Pigs, Sir, mother o'the Pigs! Mother o'the Furies, I think, by her firebrand. Nay, she is too fat to be a Fury, sure, some walking Sow of tallow! An inspired vessel of Kitchen-stuff! She'll make excellent gear for the Coach-makers, here in Smithfield, to anoint wheels and axle trees with. I, I, Gamesters, mock a plain plump soft wench o' the Suburbs, do, because she's ivicy and wholesome: you must ha' your thin pinched ware, penned up i'the compass of a dog-collar, (or 'twill not do) that looks like a long laced Conger, set upright, and a green feather, like fennel i'the jowl on't. Well said Urs, my good Urs; to 'em Vrs. Is she your quagmire, Dan: Knockhum? is this your Bog? We shall have a quarrel presently. How? Bog? Quagmire? foul vapours! hum'h! Yes, he that would venture for't, I assure him, might sink into her, and be drowned a week, ere any friend he had, could found where he were. And than he would be a fort ' night weighing up again. 'Twere like falling into a whole Shire of butter: they had need be a teeme of Dutchmen, should draw him out. Answer 'em, Urs, where's thy Bartholmew-wit, now? Urs, thy Bartholmew-wit? Hung 'em, rotten, roguy Cheaters, I hope to see 'em plagued one day (poxed they are already, I am sure) with lean playhouse poultry, that has the bony rump, sticking out like the Ace of Spades, or the point of a Partisan, that every rib of hem is like the tooth of a Saw: and will so grate 'em with their hips, & shoulders, as (take 'em altogether) they were as good lie with a hurdle. Out upon her, how she drips! she's able to give a man the sweeting Sickness, with looking on her. Marry look of, with a patch o'your face; and a dozen i'your breech, though they be o'scarlet, Sir. I ha' seen as fine outsides, as either o'yours, bring lousy linings to the Brokers, ere now, twice a week? Do you think there may be a fine new Cucking-stool i'the Fair, to be purchased? one large enough, I mean. I know there is a pond of capacity, for her. For your mother, you Rascal, out you Rogue, you hedge bird, you Pimp, you pannier-man's bastard, you. Ha', ha', ha'. Do you sneerc, you cods-head, you Trendle tail! you look as you were begotten atop of a Cart in harvest-time, when the whelp was hot and eager. Go, snuff after your brother's bitch, Mrs Commodity, that's the Livery you wear, 'twill be out at the elbows, shortly. It's time you went to't, for the tother remnant.
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)
Why? would my Booth ha' broake, if they had fal'ne out in't? Sir? or would their heate ha' fir'd it? in, you Rogue, and wipe the pigges, and mend the fire, that they fall not, or I'le both baſte and roaſt you, till your eyes drop out, like 'hem. (Leaue the bottle behinde you, and be curſt a while.) Body o'the Fayre! what's this? mother o'the Bawds? No, ſhe's mother o'the Pigs, Sir, mother o'the Pigs! Mother o'the Furies, I thinke, by her firebrand. Nay, ſhee is too fat to be a Fury, ſure, ſome walking Sow of tallow! An inſpir'd veſſell of Kitchin-ſtuffe! She'll make excellent geere for the Coach-makers, here in Smithfield, to anoynt wheeles and axell trees with. I, I, Gameſters, mocke a plaine plumpe ſoft wench o' the Suburbs, doe, becauſe ſhe's iuicy and wholeſome: you muſt ha' your thinne pinch'd ware, pent vp i'the compaſſe of a dogge-collar, (or 'twill not do) that lookes like a long lac'd Conger, ſet vpright, and a greene feather, like fennell i'the Ioll on't. Well ſaid Vrs, my good Vrs; to 'hem Vrs. Is ſhee your quagmire, Dan: Knockhum? is this your Bogge? We ſhall haue a quarrel preſently. How? Bog? Quagmire? foule vapours! hum'h! Yes, hee that would venture for't, I aſſure him, might ſinke into her, and be drown'd a weeke, ere any friend hee had, could find where he were. And then he would be a fort' night weighing vp againe. 'Twere like falling into a whole Shire of butter: they had need be a teeme of Dutchmen, ſhould draw him out. Anſwer 'hem, Vrs, where's thy Bartholmew-wit, now? Vrs, thy Bartholmew-wit? Hang 'hem, rotten, roguy Cheaters, I hope to ſee 'hem plagu'd one day (pox'd they are already, I am ſure) with leane play-houſe poultry, that has the boany rumpe, ſticking out like the Ace of Spades, or the point of a Partizan, that euery rib of hem is like the tooth of a Saw: and will ſo grate 'hem with their hips, & ſhoulders, as (take 'hem altogether) they were as good lye with a hurdle. Out vpon her, how ſhe drips! ſhe's able to giue a man the ſweating Sickneſſe, with looking on her. Mary looke off, with a patch o'your face; and a doſen i'your breech, though they be o'ſcarlet, Sir. I ha' ſeene as fine outſides, as either o'yours, bring lowſie linings to the Brokers, ere now, twice a weeke? Doe you thinke there may be a fine new Cuckingſtoole i'the Fayre, to be purchas'd? one large inough, I meane. I know there is a pond of capacity, for her. For your mother, you Raſcall, out you Rogue, you hedge bird, you Pimpe, you pannier-mans baſtard, you. Ha, ha, ha. Doe you ſneerc, you dogs-head, you Trendle tayle! you looke as you were begotten a'top of a Cart in harueſt-time, when the whelp was hot and eager. Go, ſnuffe after your brothers bitch, Mrs Commodity, that's the Liuory you weare, 'twill be out at the elbows, ſhortly. It's time you went to't, for the to'ther remnant.