Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T16: lady, madam, gentleman, lordship, ladies, honour, mistress, sweet, court, servant.
As bright as is the Sun her Sire, Or Earth her mother, in her best attire, Or Mint, the Midwife, with her fire, Comes forth her Grace! The splendour of the wealthiest Mines! The stamp, and strength of all imperial lines, Both majesty and beauty shines, In her sweet face! Look how a Torch, of Taper light, Or of that Torch's flame, a Beacon bright; That Mint the Midwife does well. That's fairly said of Money. Good! Now there, I want a line to finish, Sir. Or of that Beacon's fire, Moonlight: So takes she place! And than I have a Saraband— She makes good cheer, she keeps full boards, She holds a Fair of Knights, and Lords, A Mercat of all Offices, And Shops of honour, more or less. According to Pecunia's Grace, The Bride hath beauty, blood, and place, The Bridegroom virtue, valour, wit, And wisdom, as he stands for it. 'Tis good. Call in the Fiddlers. Nick, the boy shall sing it, Sweet Princess, kiss him, kiss 'em all, dear Madam, And at the close, vouchsafe to call them Cousins. Sweet Cousin Madrigal, and Cousin Fitton, My Cousin Shunfield, and my learned Cousin. Almanac, though they call him Almanac. Why, here's the Prodigal prostitutes his Mistress! And Picklock, he must be a kinsman too. My man o' Law will teach us all to win, And keep our own. Old Founder. Nothing, I Sir? I am a wretch, a beggar. She the fortunate. Can want no kindred, we, the poor know none. Nor none shall know, by my consent. Nor mine, Sing, boy, stand here. Look, look, how all their eyes Dance i'their heads (observe) scattered with lust! At sight o' their brave Idol! how they are tickled, With a light air! the bawdy Saruband! They are a kind of dancing engines all! And set, by nature, thus, to run alone To every sound! All things within, without them, Move, but their brain, and that stands still! mere monsters Here, in a chamber, of most subtle feet! And make their legs in tune, passing the streets! These are the gallant spirits o'the age! The miracles o'the time! that can cry up And down men's wits! and set what rate on things Their half-brained fancies please! Now pox upon 'hem. See how solicitously he learns the jig, As if it were a mystery of his faith! A dainty ditty! O, he's a dainty Poet! When he sets to't! And a dainty Scholar! Not, no great scholar, he writes like a Gentleman. Pox o'your Scholar. Pox o'your distinction! As if a Scholar were no Gentleman. With these, to writ like a Gentleman, will in time Become, all one, as to writ like an Ass, These Gentlemen? these Rascals! I am sick Of indignation at 'hem. How do you liked, Sir? 'Tis excellent! 'Twas excellently sung! A dainty Air! What says my Lickfinger?
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)
As bright as is the Sunne her Sire, Or Earth her mother, in her beſt atyre, Or Mint, the Mid-wife, with her fire, Comes forth her Grace! The ſplendour of the wealthieſt Mines! The ſtamp, and ſtrength of all imperiall lines, Both maieſty and beauty ſhines, In her ſweet face! Looke how a Torch, of Taper light, Or of that Torches flame, a Beacon bright; That Mint the Midwife does well. That's fairely said of Money. Good! Now there, I want a line to finiſh, Sir. Or of that Beacons fire, Moone-light: So takes ſhe place! And then I haue a Saraband— She makes good cheare, ſhe keepes full boards, She holds a Faire of Knights, and Lords, A Mercat of all Offices, And Shops of honour, more or leſſe. According to Pecunia's Grace, The Bride hath beauty, blood, and place, The Bridegrome vertue, valour, wit, And wiſedome, as he ſtands for it. 'Tis good. Call in the Fidlers. Nicke, the boy ſhall ſing it, Sweet Princeſſe, kiſſe him, kiſſe 'hem all, deare Madame, And at the cloſe, vouchſafe to call them Couſins. Sweet Couſin Madrigall, and Couſin Fitton, My Couſin Shunfield, and my learned Couſin. Al-manach, though they call him Almanack. Why, here's the Prodigall proſtitutes his Miſtreſſe! And Picklocke, he muſt be a kinſman too. My man o' Law will teach vs all to winne, And keepe our owne. Old Founder. Nothing, I Sir? I am a wretch, a begger. She the fortunate. Can want no kindred, wee, the poore know none. Nor none ſhall know, by my conſent. Nor mine, Sing, boy, ſtand here. Look, look, how all their eyes Dance i'their heads (obſerue) ſcatter'd with luſt! At ſight o' their braue Idoll! how they are tickl'd, With a light ayre! the bawdy Saruband! They are a kinde of dancing engines all! And ſet, by nature, thus, to runne alone To euery ſound! All things within, withou them, Moue, but their braine, and that ſtands ſtill! mere monſters Here, in a chamber, of moſt ſubtill feet! And make their legs in tune, paſſing the ſtreetes! Theſe are the gallant ſpirits o'the age! The miracles o'the time! that can cry vp And downe mens wits! and ſet what rate on things Their half-brain'd fancies pleaſe! Now pox vpon 'hem. See how ſolicitouſly he learnes the Iigge, As if it were a myſtery of his faith! A dainty ditty! O, hee's a dainty Poet! When he ſets to't! And a dainty Scholler! No, no great ſcholler, he writes like a Gentleman. Pox o'your Scholler. Pox o'your diſtinction! As if a Scholler were no Gentleman. With theſe, to write like a Gentleman, will in time Become, all one, as to write like an Aſſe, Theſe Gentlemen? theſe Raſcalls! I am ſicke Of indignation at 'hem. How doe you lik't, Sir? 'Tis excellent! 'Twas excellently ſung! A dainty Ayre! What ſaies my Lickfinger?