Jonson, Ben · published 1631 · first performed or written 1616 [Oct-Nov (?)] (Annals) comedy · King's Men T6 Money, debt and credit typicality 0.69 · 515 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T6: money, master, pound, law, lawyer, chain, gentleman, gold, pay, pray.
Except he please, but's countenance; (That I will have) t' appear in it, to great men, For which I'll make him one. He shall not draw A string of's purse. I'll drive his patent for him. We'll take in Citizens, Commoners, and Aldermen, To bear the charge, and blow 'em of again, Like so many dead flies, when 'tis carried. The thing is for recovery of drowned Land, Whereof the Crown's to have a moiety, If it be owner; Else, the Crown and Owners To share that moiety: and the recoverers T' enjoy the t'other moiety, for their charge. Throughout England? Yes, which will arise To eyghteene millions, seven the first year: I have computed all, and made my survey Unto an acre, I'll begin at the Pan, Not, at the skirts: as some ha' done, and lost, All that they wrought, their timberwork, their trench, Their banks all borne away, or else filled up By the next winter. Tut, they never went The way: I'll have it all. A Gallant tract Of land it is! IT will yield a pound an acre. We must let cheap, ever, at first. But Sir, This looks too large for you, I see. Come hither, We'll have a less. Here's a plain fellow, you see him, Has his black bag of papers, there, in Buckram, Wi' not be sold for th' Earldom of Pancridge: Draw, Give me out one, by chance. Project; four dogs skins? Twelve thousand pound! the very worst, at first. Pray you let's see it Sir. 'Tis a toy, a trifle! Trifle! 12. thousand pound for dogs-skins? Yes, But, by my way of dressing, you must know, Sir, And med'cining the leather, to a height Of improved ware, like your Borachio Of Spain, Sir. I can fetch nine thousand for it— Of the King's glover? Yes, how heard you that? Sir, I do know you can. Within this hour: And reserve half my secret. Pluck another; See if thou hast a happier hand: I thought so. The very next worse to it ● Bottle-ale. Yet, this is two and twenty thousand! Pray thee Pull out another, two or three. Good, stay, friend, By bottle-ale, two and twenty thousand pound? Yes, Sir, it's cast to penny-hal' penny-farthing, O' the backside, there you may see it, read, I will not bate a Harrington o' the sum. I'll win it i' my water, and my malt, My furnaces, and hanging o' my coppers, The tonning, and the subtlety o' my yeast; And, than the earth of my bottles, which I dig, Turn up, and steep, and work, and neal, myself, To a degree of Porc'lane. You will wonder, At my proportions, what I will put up In seven years! for so long time, I ask For my invention. I will save in cork, In my mere stoppling, 'boue three thousand pound, Within that term: by googing of 'em out Just to the size of my bottles, and not slicing. There's infinite loss i' that. What hast thou there? O' making wine of raisins: this is in hand, now,
nodes 823–890 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 14 of 54 in this edition
Length
515 words · 753 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T6 — Money, debt and creditcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.686 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T9 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Except he pleaſe, but's count'nance; (That I will haue) t' appeare in 't, to great men, For which I'll make him one. Hee ſhall not draw A ſtring of's purſe. I'll driue his pattent for him. We'll take in Cittizens, Commoners, and Aldermen, To beare the charge, and blow 'hem off againe, Like ſo many dead flyes, when 'tis carryed. The thing is for recouery of drown'd Land, Whereof the Crown's to haue a moiety, If it be owner; Elſe, the Crowne and Owners To ſhare that moyety: and the recouerers T' enioy the tother moyety, for their charge. Throughout England? Yes, which will ariſe To eyghteene millions, ſeuen the firſt yeere: I haue computed all, and made my ſuruay Vnto an acre, I'll beginne at the Pan, Not, at the skirts: as ſome ha' done, and loſt, All that they wrought, their timber-worke, their trench, Their bankes all borne away, or elſe fill'd vp By the next winter. Tut, they neuer went The way: I'll haue it all. A Gallant tract Of land it is! 'T will yeeld a pound an acre. Wee muſt let cheape, euer, at firſt. But Sir, This lookes too large for you, I ſee. Come hither, We'll haue a leſſe. Here's a plain fellow, you ſee him, Has his black bag of papers, there, in Buckram, Wi' not be ſold for th' Earledome of Pancridge: Draw, Gi' me out one, by chance. Proiect; foure dogs skins? Twelue thouſand pound! the very worſt, at firſt. Pray you let's ſee 't Sir. 'Tis a toy, a trifle! Trifle! 12. thouſand pound for dogs-skins? Yes, But, by my way of dreſſing, you muſt know, Sir, And med'cining the leather, to a height Of improu'd ware, like your Borachio Of Spaine, Sir. I can fetch nine thouſand for 't— Of the Kings glouer? Yes, how heard you that? Sir, I doe know you can. Within this houre: And reſerue halfe my ſecret. Pluck another; See if thou haſt a happier hand: I thought ſo. The very next worſe to it Bottle-ale. Yet, this is two and twenty thouſand! Pr'y thee Pull out another, two or three. Good, ſtay, friend, By bottle-ale, two and twenty thouſand pound? Yes, Sir, it's caſt to penny-hal' penny-farthing, O' the back-ſide, there you may ſee it, read, I will not bate a Harrington o' the ſumme. I'll winne it i' my water, and my malt, My furnaces, and hanging o' my coppers, The tonning, and the ſubtilty o' my yeſt; And, then the earth of my bottles, which I dig, Turne vp, and ſteepe, and worke, and neale, my ſelfe, To a degree of Porc'lane. You will wonder, At my proportions, what I will put vp In ſeuen yeeres! for ſo long time, I aske For my inuention. I will ſaue in cork, In my mere ſtop'ling, 'boue three thouſand pound, Within that terme: by googing of 'hem out Iuſt to the ſize of my bottles, and not ſlicing. There's infinite loſſe i' that. What haſt thou there? O' making wine of raiſins: this is in hand, now,