Randolph, Thomas · published 1632 · first performed or written 1632 [Mar 20] (Annals) comedy · before the Court unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 518 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
WEll, go thy ways, I may have a thousand fathers, And never have the like:— Well pockets, well, Be not so sad, though you are heavy now, You shall be lighter. Pupil, I must tell you, I do repent the loss of those good hours, And would call back the study I have ta'en In moral Alchemy, to extract a Gentleman Almost out of a dunghill. Still do I see So much of peasant in you? Angry, Tutor? Teemed my Invention all this while for this? No better issue of my labouring brain, After so many and such painful throes? Another sin like this, and be transformed Mere clown again. The reason, dear instructor. Have I not opened to you all the mysteries, The precise rules, and axioms of Gentility? And all methodical? Yet you still so dull, As not to know you print eternal stains Upon your honour, and corrupt your blood (That cost me many a minute the refining) By carrying your own money? See these Breeches, A pair of worthy, rich, and reverent Breeches, Lost to the fashion by a lump of dross. I'll be your bailiff rather. Out infection. Who, that beheld those hose, could e'er suspect They would be guilty of mechanic metal? What's your vocation? Trade you for yourself? Or else whose Journeyman, or Prentice are you? Pardon me, Tutor: for I do repent, And do protest hereafter I will never Wear any thing that jingles— but my spurs. This is gentile. A way mechanic trash: I'll kick thee son of earth:— Thus will I kick thee,— For torturing my poor father— Dirt avant— I do abandon thee. Blessed be thy generous tongue. But who comes here? This office must be mine: I'll make you fair account of every drachma. I'll not endure the trouble of account: Say all is spent,— and then we must have more. WHat Fury shot a viper through my soul To poison all my thoughts? Civil dissension Wars in my blood: here Love with thousand bows And twenty thousand arrows lays his siege To my poor heart; which, manned with nought but fear, Denies the great god entrance. O Evadne! Canst thou that risest fairer than the morn, Set blacker than the evening?— Weak jealousy!— Did e'er thy prying and suspicious sight Find her lip guilty of a wanton smile? Or one lascivious glance dart from her eye? The blushes of her cheeks are innocent, Her carriage sober, her discourse all chaste; No toyish gesture, no desire to see The public shows, or haunt the Theatre. She is no popular Mistress, all her kisses Do speak her Virgin, such a bashful heat At several tides ebbs, flows; flows, ebbs again, As 'twere afraid to meet our wilder flame. But if all this be cunning, (as who knows The sleights of Sirens?) and I credulous fool Trained by her songs to sink in her embraces; I were undone for ever— wretched Tyndarus! Ha, ha, ha, he. This is an arrant Coxcomb, That's jealous of his wife ere he has got her, And thinks himself a Cuckold before marriage.
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)
VVEll, go thy waies, I may have a thousand fathers, And never have the like:—Well pockets, well, Be not so sad, though you are heavy now, You shall be lighter. Pupill, I must tell you, I do repent the losse of those good houres, And would call back the study I have ta'ne In morall Alchymie, to extract a Gentleman Almost out of a dunghill. Still do I see So much of peasant in you? Angry, Tutour? Teem'd my Invention all this while for this? No better issue of my labouring brain, After so many and such painfull throe's? Another sinne like this, and be transform'd Meere clown again. The reason, deare Instructour. Have I not open'd to you all the mysteries, The precise rules, and axiomes of Gentilitie? And all methodicall? Yet you still so dull, As not to know you print eternall stains Upon your honour, and corrupt your bloud (That cost me many a minute the refining) By carrying your own money? See these Breeches, A pair of worthy, rich, and reverent Breeches, Lost to the fashion by a lump of drosse. I'le be your bailiffe rather. Out infection. Who, that beheld those hose, could e're suspect They would be guilty of mechanick mettall? What's your vocation? Trade you for your self? Or else whose Journeyman, or Prentice are you? Pardon me, Tutour: for I do repent, And do protest hereafter I will never Weare any thing that jingles—but my spurres. This is gentile. A way mechanick trash: I'le kick thee sonne of earth:—Thus will I kick thee,— For torturing my poore father—Dirt avant— I do abandon thee. Blest be thy generous tongue. But who comes here? This office must be mine: I'le make you fair account of every drachme. I'le not endure the trouble of account: Say all is spent,—and then we must have more. WHat Fury shot a viper through my soul To poison all my thoughts? Civill dissension Warres in my bloud: here Love with thousand bowes And twenty thousand arrows layes his siege To my poore heart; which, man'd with nought but fear, Denies the great god entrance. O Evadne! Canst thou that risest fairer then the morn, Set blacker then the evening? —Weak jealousie!— Did e're thy prying and suspicious sight Finde her lippe guilty of a wanton smile? Or one lascivious glance dart from her eye? The blushes of her cheeks are innocent, Her carriage sober, her discourse all chaste; No toyish gesture, no desire to see The publick shows, or haunt the Theatre. She is no popular Mistresse, all her kisses Do speak her Virgin, such a bashfull heat At severall tides ebbes, flowes; flowes, ebbes again, As 'twere afraid to meet our wilder flame. But if all this be cunning, (as who knows The sleights of Sirens?) and I credulous fool Train'd by her songs to sink in her embraces; I were undone for ever—wretched Tyndarus! Ha, ha, ha, he. This is an arrant Coxcombe, That's jealous of his wife ere he has got her, And thinks himself a Cuckold before marriage.