Jonson, Ben · published 1631 · first performed or written 1626 [Feb] (Annals) comedy · King's Men T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds typicality 0.79 · 491 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
He may be in time, he is his Agent, now. You are all cogging jacks, a Covey o' wits, The jeerers, that still call together at meals: Or rather an Airy, for you are birds of prey: And fly at all, nothing's too big or high for you. And are so truly feared, but not beloved One of another: as no one dares break Company from the rest, jest they should fall, Upon him absent. O! the only Oracle That ever peeped, or spoke out of a doublet. How the rogue stinks, worse than a Fishmonger sleeves! Or Curriers hands! And such a parboiled visage! His face looks like a Dyer's apron, just! A sodden head, and his whole brain a posset curd! I, now you jeer, jeer on; I have no money. I wonder what religion he's of! Not certain species sure, A kind of mule! That's half an Ethnic, halfe a Christian! I have no money, gentlemen. This stock. He has no sense of any virtue, honour, Gentry or merit. You say very right, My meritorious Captain, (as I take it!) Merit will keep no house, nor pay no house rend. Will Mistress Merit go to mercat, think you? Set on the pot, or feed the family? Will Gentry clear with the Butcher? or the Baker? Fetch in a Pheasant, or a brace of Partridges, From goodwife Poulter, for my Lady's supper. See! this pure rogue! This rogue has money tho', My worshipful brave Courtier has no money. Not, nor my valiant Captain. Hung you rascal. Nor you, my learned Doctor. I loved you While you did hold your practice, and kill tripe wives. And kept you to your urinal; but since your thumbs Have greased the Ephemerideses, casting figures, And turning over for your Candle-rents, And your twelve houses in the Zodiac: With your Almutens, Alma cantaras, Troth you shall cant alone for Peny-boy. I told you what we should found him, a mere Bawd. A rogue, a cheater. What you please, gentlemen, I am of that humble nature and condition, Never to mind your worships, or take notice Of what you throw away, thus. I keep house here Like a lame Cobbler, never out of doors, With my two dogs, my friends; and (as you say) Drive a quick pretty trade, still. I get money: And as for Titles, be they Rogue, or Rascal, Or what your worship's fancy, let 'em pass As transitory things; they're mine to day, And yours to morrow. Hung thee dog. Thou cur. You see how I do blush, and am ashamed Of these large attributes? yet you have no money. Well wolf, Hyaena, you old pocky rascal, You will ha' the Hernia fall down again Into your Scrotum, and I shall be sent for. I will remember than, that; and your Fistula In ano, I cured you of. Thank your dog-leech craft. They were ' wholesome piles, afore you meddled with'hem.
nodes 1011–1079 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 17 of 50 in this edition
Length
491 words · 704 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T47 — Knaves, thieves and bawdscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.789 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
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)
Hee may be in time, hee is his Agent, now. You are all cogging Iacks, a Couy o' wits, The Ieerers, that ſtill call together at meales: Or rather an Airy, for you are birds of prey: And flie at all, nothing's too bigge or high for you. And are ſo truely fear'd, but not belou'd One of another: as no one dares breake Company from the reſt, leſt they ſhould fall, Vpon him abſent. O! the onely Oracle That euer peept, or ſpake out of a dublet. How the rogue ſtinks, worſe then a Fiſhmonger ſleeues! Or Curriers hands! And ſuch a perboil'd viſage! His face lookes like a Diers apron, iuſt! A ſodden head, and his whole braine a poſſit curd! I, now you ieere, ieere on; I haue no money. I wonder what religion hee's of! No certaine ſpecies ſure, A kinde of mule! That's halfe an Ethnicke, halfe a Chriſtian! I haue no monie, gentlemen. This ſtocke. He has no ſenſe of any vertue, honour, Gentrie or merit. You ſay very right, My meritorious Captaine, (as I take it!) Merit will keepe no houſe, nor pay no houſe rent. Will Miſtreſſe Merit goe to mercat, thinke you? Set on the pot, or feed the family? Will Gentry cleare with the Butcher? or the Baker? Fetch in a Pheſſant, or a brace of Partridges, From good-wife Poulter, for my Ladies ſupper. See! this pure rogue! This rogue has money tho', My worſhipfull braue Courtier has no money. No, nor my valiant Captaine. Hang you raſcall. Nor you, my learned Doctor. I lou'd you Whil you did hold your practice, and kill tripe wiues. And kept you to your vrinall; but ſince your thombes Haue greas'd the Ephemerides, caſting figures, And turning ouer for your Candle-rents, And your twelue houſes in the Zodiacke: With your Almutens, Alma cantaras, Troth you ſhall cant alone for Peny-boy. I told you what we ſhould find him, a meere Bawd. A rogue, a cheater. What you pleaſe, gentlemen, I am of that humble nature and condition, Neuer to minde your worſhips, or take notice Of what you throw away, thus. I keepe houſe here Like a lame Cobler, neuer out of doores, With my two dogs, my friends; and (as you ſay) Driue a quicke pretty trade, ſtill. I get money: And as for Titles, be they Rogue, or Raſcall, Or what your worſhips fancy, let 'hem paſſe As tranſitory things; they're mine to day, And yours to morrow. Hang thee dog. Thou curre. You ſee how I doe bluſh, and am aſham'd Of theſe large attributes? yet you haue no money. Well wolfe, Hyaena, you old pockie raſcall, You will ha' the Hernia fall downe againe Into your Scrotum, and I ſhall be ſent for. I will remember then, that; and your Fiſtula In ano, I cur'd you of. Thanke your dog-leech craft. They were 'holeſome piles, afore you meddl'd with'hem.