Jonson, Ben · published 1631 · first performed or written 1614 [Oct 31] (Annals) comedy · Lady Elizabeth's Men unassigned nearest T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds · 494 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
Not your best! death! why should it be your worst? why should it be any, indeed, at all? answer me to that, give me a reason from you, why it should be any? Nor my gold, Numps; I ha' that yet, look here else, Sister. Why so, there's all the feeling he has! I pray you, have a better care of that, brother. Nay, so I will, I warrant you; let him catch this, that catch can. I would feign see him get this, look you here. So, so, so, so, so, so, so, so! Very good. I would ha' him come again, now, and but offer at it. Sister, will you take notice of a good jest? I will put it just where th'other was, and if we ha' good luck, you shall see a delicate fine trap to catch the cutpurse, nibbling. Faith, and he'll try ere you be out o'the Fair. Come, Mistress Grace, prithee be not melancholy for my mischance; sorrow wi'not keep it, Sweet heart. I do not think on't, Sir. 'Twas but a little scurvy white money, hung it: it may hung the cutpurse, one day. I ha' gold left to gi'thee a fairing, yet, as hard as the world goes: nothing anger's me, but that no body here, looked like a cutpurse, unless 'twere Numps. How? I? I look like a cutpurse? death! your Sister's a cutpurse! and your mother and father, and all your kin were cutpurses! And here is a Rogue is the bawd o'the cutpurses, whom I will beaten to begin with. Numps, Numps. Good Mr Humphrey. You are the Patrico! are you? the Patriarch of the cutpurses? you share, Sir, they say, let them share, this with you. Are you i'your hot fit of preaching again? I'll cool you. Hold thy hand, child of wrath, and heir of anger, make it not Childermas day in thy fury, or the feast of the French Bartholomew, Parent of the of the Massacre. Murder, murder, murder. NAy, 'tish all gone, now! dish 'tish, phen tou vilt not be phitin call, Master Officer, phat is a man te better to lishen out noyshes for the, & tou art in an oder 'orld, being very shuffishient noyshes and gallantsh too, one o'their brabblesh would have fed ush all dish fortnight, but tou art so bushy about beggersh still, tou hast no leisure to intent shentlemen, and't be. Why, I told you, Davy Bristle. Come, come, you told me a pudding, Toby Haggis; A matter of nothing; I am sure it came to nothing! you said, let's go to Ursula's, indeed; but than you met the man with the monsters, and I could not get you from him. An old fool, not leave seeing yet? Why, who would ha' thought any body would ha' quarreled so early? or that the ale o'the. Fair would ha' been up so soon. Fie? phat a clock toest tou tinke it is, man?
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)
Not your beſt! death! why ſhould it be your worſt? why ſhould it be any, indeed, at all? anſwer me to that, gi' mee a reaſon from you, why it ſhould be any? Nor my gold, Numps; I ha' that yet, looke heere elſe, Siſter. Why ſo, there's all the feeling he has! I pray you, haue a better care of that, brother. Nay, ſo I will, I warrant you; let him catch this, that catch can. I would faine ſee him get this, looke you heere. So, ſo, ſo, ſo, ſo, ſo, ſo, ſo! Very good. I would ha' him come againe, now, and but offer at it. Siſter, will you take notice of a good ieſt? I will put it iuſt where th'other was, and if we ha' good lucke, you ſhall ſee a delicate fine trap to catch the cutpurſe, nibling. Faith, and he'll trye ere you be out o'the Fayre. Come, Miſtreſſe Grace, pre'thee be not melancholy for my miſ-chance; ſorrow wi'not keepe it, Sweet heart. I doe not thinke on't, Sir. 'Twas but a little ſcuruy white money, hang it: it may hang the cutpurſe, one day. I ha' gold left to gi'thee a fayring, yet, as hard as the world goes: nothing angers me, but that no body heere, look'd like a cutpurſe, vnleſſe 'twere Numps. How? I? I looke like a cutpurſe? death! your Siſter's a cutpurſe! and your mother and father, and all your kinne were cutpurſes! And here is a Rogue is the baud o'the cutpurſes, whom I will beat to begin with. Numps, Numps. Good Mr Humphrey. You are the Patrico! are you? the Patriarch of the cutpurſes? you ſhare, Sir, they ſay, let them ſhare, this with you. Are you i'your hot fit of preaching again? I'le coole you. Hold thy hand, childe of wrath, and heyre of anger, make it not Childermaſſe day in thy fury, or the feaſt of the French Bartholmew, Parent of the of the Maſſacre. Murther, murther, murther. NAy, tiſh all gone, now! diſh tiſh, phen tou vilt not be phitin call, Maſter Offiſher, phat iſh a man te better to liſhen out noyſhes for tee, & tou art in an oder 'orld, being very ſhuffiſhient noyſhes and gallantſh too, one o'their brabbleſh woud haue fed vſh all diſh fortnight, but tou art ſo buſhy about beggerſh ſtil, tou haſt no leſhure to intend ſhentlemen, and't be. Why, I told you, Dauy Briſtle. Come, come, you told mee a pudding, Toby Haggiſe; A matter of nothing; I am ſure it came to nothing! you ſaid, let's goe to Vrſla's, indeede; but then you met the man with the monſters, and I could not get you from him. An old foole, not leaue ſeeing yet? Why, who would ha' thought any body would ha' quarrell'd ſo earely? or that the ale o'the. Fayre would ha' beene vp ſo ſoone. Phy? phat a clocke toeſt tou tinke it iſh, man?