Jonson, Ben · published 1631 · first performed or written 1626 [Feb] (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds · 498 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
You would dye a calf's death feign: but 'tis an Ox's, Is meant you. To be fairly knocked o'the head. With a good jeer or two. And from your jawbone, Don Assinigo? Shunfield, a jeer, you have it. I do confess a washing blow? but Snarle, You that might play the third dog, for your teeth, You ha' no money now? Not, nor no Mortgage. Nor Band. Nor Statute. Not, nor blushet Wax. Nor you no Office, as I take it. Cymbal, A mighty jeer. Pox o'these true jests, I say. He will turn the better jeerer. Let's upon him, And if we cannot jeer him down in wit, Let's do't in noise. Content. Charge, man o' war. Lay him, aboard. We'll give him a broad side, first. where's your venison, now? Your red-Deer-pyes? Wi' your baked Turkeys? and your Partridges? Your Pheasants, & fat Swans? Like you, turned Geese. But such as will not keep your Capitol? You were want to ha' your Bream— And Trout sent in? Fat Carp, and Salmon? I, and now, and than, An Emblem, o'your self, an o'ergrown Pike? You are a Iack, Sir. You ha' made a shift To swallow twenty such poor jacks ere now. If he should come to feed upon poor- Iohn? Or turn pure jack-a-lent after all this? Tut, he'll live like a Grasshopper— On dew. Or like a Bear, with licking his own claws. I, If his dogs were away. He'll eat them, first, While they are fat. Faith, and when they are gone, Here's nothing to be seen beyond. Except His kindred, Spiders, natives o' the soil. Dust, he will ha' enough here, to breed fleas. But, by that time, he'll ha' no blood to rear 'hem. He will be as thin as a lantern, we shall see thorough him, And his gut colon, tell his Intestina— Rogues, Rascals (baw waw) He calls his dogs to his aid. O! they but rise at mention of his tripes. Let them alone, they do it not for him. They bark, se defendendo. Or for custom, As commonly currres do, one for another. Arm, arm you, gentlemans jeerers, th'old Canter Is coming in upon you, with his forces, The Gentleman, that was the Canter. Hence. Away. What is he? stay not to ask questions. he's a flame. A furnace. A consumption, Kills where he goes. See! the whole Covey is scattered, Ware,' ware the Hawks. I love to see him fly. YOu see by this amazement, and distraction, What your companions were, a poor, affrighted, And guilty race of men, that dare to stand No breath of truth: but conscious to themselves Of their no-wit, or honesty, ran routed At every Panic terror themselves bred. Where else, as confident as sounding brass, Their tinkling Captain, Cymbal, and the rest, Dare put on any visor, to deride The wretched: or with buffoon licence, jest At whatsoe'er is serious, if not sacred. Who's this? my brother! and restored to life!
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)
You would dye a calues death faine: but 'tis an Oxes, Is meant you. To be fairely knock'd o'the head. With a good Ieere or two. And from your iawbone, Don Aſsinigo? Shunfield, a Ieere, you haue it. I doe confeſſe a waſhing blow? but Snarle, You that might play the third dogge, for your teeth, You ha' no money now? No, nor no Mortgage. Nor Band. Nor Statute. No, nor bluſhet Wax. Nor you no Office, as I take it. Cymbal, A mighty Ieere. Pox o'theſe true ieaſts, I ſay. He will turne the better ieerer. Let's vpon him, And if we cannot ieere him downe in wit, Let's do't in noyſe. Content. Charge, man o'warre. Lay him, abord. We'll gi' him a broad ſide, firſt. Wher's your veniſon, now? Your red-Deer-pyes? Wi' your bak'd Turkyes? and your Partridges? Your Pheſſants, & fat Swans? Like you, turn'd Geeſe. But ſuch as will not keepe your Capitol? You were wont to ha' your Breams— And Trouts ſent in? Fat Carps, and Salmons? I, and now, and then, An Embleme, o'your ſelfe, an o're-growne Pyke? You are a Iack, Sir. You ha' made a ſhift To ſwallow twenty ſuch poore Iacks ere now. If he ſhould come to feed vpon poore-Iohn? Or turne pure Iack-a-Lent after all this? Tut, he'll liue like a Graſ-hopper— On dew. Or like a Beare, with licking his owne clawes. I, If his dogs were away. He'll eat them, firſt, While they are fat. Faith, and when they are gone, Here's nothing to be ſeene beyond. Except His kindred, Spiders, natiues o' the ſoyle. Duſt, he will ha' enough here, to breed fleas. But, by that time, he'll ha' no blood to reare 'hem. He will be as thin as a lanterne, we ſhall ſee thorow him, And his gut colon, tell his Inteſtina— Rogues, Raſcalls ( baw waw) He calls his dogs to his ayd. O! they but riſe at mention of his tripes. Let them alone, they doe it not for him. They barke, ſe defendendo. Or for cuſtome, As commonly currres doe, one for another. Arme, arme you, Gentlemen Ieerers, th'old Canter Is comming in vpon you, with his forces, The Gentleman, that was the Canter. Hence. Away. What is he? ſtay not to ask queſtions. Hee's a flame. A fornace. A conſumption, Kills where hee goes. See! the whole Couy is ſcatter'd, 'Ware, 'ware the Hawkes. I loue to ſee him flye. YOu ſee by this amazement, and diſtraction, What your companions were, a poore, affrighted, And guilty race of men, that dare to ſtand No breath of truth: but conſcious to themſelues Of their no-wit, or honeſty, ranne routed At euery Pannicke terror themſelues bred. Where elſe, as confident as ſounding braſſe, Their tinckling Captaine, Cymbal, and the reſt, Dare put on any viſor, to deride The wretched: or with buffon licence, ieaſt At whatſoe'r is ſerious, if not ſacred. Who's this? my brother! and reſtor'd to life!