Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T16: lady, madam, gentleman, lordship, ladies, honour, mistress, sweet, court, servant.
What an ungrateful wretch is this? He minds A courtesy no more, than London-bridge, What Arch was mended last. He never thinks. Moore than a log, of any grace at Court, A man may do him: or that such a Lord Reached him his hand. O yes! if grace would strike The brewer's Tally, or my good Lords hand, Would quit the scores. But Sir, they will not do it. Here's a piece, my good Lord piece, doth all. Goes to the Butehers. fetches in a mutton, Than to the Bakers, brings in bread, makes fires, Gets wine, and does more real Courtesies, Than all my Lords, I know: My sweet Lord piece! You are my Lord, the rest are cogging jacks, Under the Rose. Rogue, I could beaten you now, True Captain, if you durst beaten any other. I should believe you, but indeed you are hungry; You are not angry Captain, if I know you Aright; good Captain. Not, Pecunia, Is to be seen, though Mistress Band would speak, Or little Blushet- Wax, be ne'er so easy, I'll stop mine ears with her, against the Sirens, Court, and Philosophy. God be wi● you, gentlemans, Provide you better names. Pecunia is for you. What a damned Harpy it is? where's Madrigal? Is he sneaked hence. Here he comes with Broker, Pecunia's Secretary. He may do some good With him perhaps. Where ha' you been Madrigal? Above with my Lady's women, reading verses. That was a favour. Good morrow, Master Secretary. Good morrow, Master Usher. Sir, by both Your worshipful Titles, and your name Mass Broker. Good morrow. I did ask him if he were Amphibion Broker. Why? A creature of two natures, Because he has two Offices. You may jeer, You ha' the wits, young Gentlemen. But your hope Of Helicon, will never carry it, here, With our fat family; we ha' the dullest, Most unboared Ears for verse amongst our females. I grieved you read so long, Sir, old Nurse Mortgage, She snored i'the Chair, and Statute (if you marked her) Fell fast a sleep, and Mistress Band, she nodded, But not with any consent to what you read. They must have somewhat else to chink, than rhymes. If you could make an Epitaph on your Land, (Imagine it on departure) such a Poem Would wake 'em, and bring Wax to her true temper. I faith Sir, and I will try. 'Tis but earth, Fit to make bricks and tiles of. Pocks upon't 'Tis but for pots, or pipkins at the best. If it would keep us in good tobacco pipes, 'Twere worth keeping. Or in porc'lane dishes There were some hope. But this is a hungry soil, And must be helped. Who would hold any Land To have the trouble to marl it. Not a gentleman. Let clowns and hinds affect it, that love ploughs, And carts, and harrows, and are busy still, In vexing the dull element.
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)
What an vngratefull wretch is this? Hee minds A curteſie no more, then London-bridge, What Arch was mended laſt. Hee neuer thinkes. More then a logge, of any grace at Court, A man may doe him: or that ſuch a Lord Reach't him his hand. O yes! if grace would ſtrike The brewers Tally, or my good Lords hand, Would quit the ſcores. But Sir, they will not doe it. Here's a piece, my good Lord piece, doth all. Goes to the Butehers. fetches in a muton, Then to the Bakers, brings in bread, makes fires, Gets wine, and does more reall Curteſies, Then all my Lords, I know: My ſweet Lord peece! You are my Lord, the reſt are cogging Iacks, Vnder the Roſe. Rogue, I could beat you now, True Captaine, if you durſt beat any other. I ſhould belieue you, but indeed you are hungry; You are not angry Captaine, if I know you Aright; good Captaine. No, Pecunia, Is to be ſeene, though Miſtreſſe Band would ſpeake, Or little Bluſhet-Waxe, be ne'r ſo eaſie, I'll ſtop mine eares with her, againſt the Syrens, Court, and Philoſophy. God be wi you, Gentlemen, Prouide you better names. Pecunia is for you. What a damn'd Harpy it is? where's Madrigall? Is he ſneek'd hence. Here he comes with Broker, Pecunia's Secretary. He may doe ſome good With him perhaps. Where ha you beene Madrigall? Aboue with my Ladies women, reading verſes. That was a fauour. Good morrow, Maſter Secretary. Good morrow, Maſter Vſher. Sir, by both Your worſhipfull Titles, and your name Mas Broker. Good morrow. I did aske him if hee were Amphibion Broker. Why? A creature of two natures, Becauſe hee has two Offices. You may ieere, You ha' the wits, young Gentlemen. But your hope Of Helicon, will neuer carry it, heere, With our fat family; we ha' the dulleſt, Moſt unboar'd Eares for verſe amongſt our females. I grieu'd you read ſo long, Sir, old Nurſe Mortgage, Shee ſnoar'd i'the Chaire, and Statute (if you mark'd her) Fell faſt a ſleepe, and Miſtreſſe Band, ſhee nodded, But not with any conſent to what you read. They muſt haue ſomwhat elſe to chinke, then rymes. If you could make an Epitaph on your Land, (Imagine it on departure) ſuch a Poem Would wake 'hem, and bring Waxe to her true temper. I faith Sir, and I will try. 'Tis but earth, Fit to make brickes and tyles of. Pocks vpon't 'Tis but for pots, or pipkins at the beſt. If it would keepe vs in good tabacco pipes, 'Twere worth keeping. Or in porc'lane diſhes There were ſome hope. But this is a hungry ſoile, And muſt be helpt. Who would hold any Land To haue the trouble to marle it. Not a gentleman. Let clownes and hyndes affect it, that loue ploughes, And carts, and harrowes, and are buſie ſtill, In vexing the dull element.