Massinger, Philip · published 1633 · first performed or written 1625 (Annals) comedy · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · Phoenix/Cockpit T30 Constables, justices and the watch typicality 0.85 · 499 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T30: constable, squire, tub, clay, worship, justice, turf, mr, hun, valentine.
No bouse? nor no Tobacco? Not a suck Sir, Nor the remainder of a single can Left by a drunken porter, all night paled too. Not the dropping of the tap for your morning's draught, Sir, 'Tis verity I assure you. Verity, you brach! The Devil turned precisian? Rogue what am I? Troth durst I trust you with a looking glass, To let you see your trim shape, you would quit me, And take the name yourself. How! dog? even so, Sir. And I must tell you if you but advance, Your plimworth cloak, you shall be soon instructed There dwells, and within call, if it please your worship, A potent monarch, called the Constable, That does command a Citadel, called the Stocks; Whose guards are certain files of rusty Billmen, Such as with great dexterity will hale Your tattered, lousy--- Rascal, slave. No rage, Sir. At his own peril, do not put yourself In too much heat, there being no water near To quench your thirst, and sure for other liquour, As mighty Ale, or Beer, they are things I take it You must no more remember, not in a dream Sir. Why thou unthankful villain dar'st thou talk thus? Is not thy house, and all thou hast my gift? I find it not in chalk, and Timothie Tapwell Does keep no other register. Am not I He Whose riots fed, and clothed thee? wert thou not Borne on my father's land, and proud to be A drudge in his house? What I was Sir, it skills not, What you are is apparent. Now for a farewell; Since you talk of father, in my hope it will torment you, I'll briefly tell your story. Your dead father, My quondam master, was a man of worship, Old Sir John Wellborne, justice of peace, and quorum, And stood fair to be Custos rotulorum; Bore the whole sway of the shire; kept a great house; Relieved the poor, and so forth; but He dying, And the twelve hundred a year coming to you, Late Master Francis, but now forlorn Welborne. Slave, stop, or I shall lose myself. Very hardly; You cannot out of your way. But to my story. You were then a Lord of Akers; the prime gallant; And I your underbutler; note the change now. You had a merry time of't. hawks, and Hounds, With choice of running horses; mistresses Of all sorts, and all sizes; yet so hot As their embraces made your Lordships melt; Which your Uncle Sir Giles Overreach observing, Resolving not to lose a drop of'em, On foolish mortgages, statutes, and bonds, For a while supplied your looseness, and then left you. Some Curate hath penned this invective, mongrel, And you have studied it. I have not done yet: Your land gone, and your credit not worth a token, You grew the common borrower, no man scaped Your paper-pellets, from the Gentleman To the beggars on high ways, that sold you switches In your gallantry.
seed 43: T36 · seed 44: T35 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
No bouze? nor no Tobacco? Not a sucke Sir, Nor the remainder of a single canne Left by a drunken porter, all night palde too. Not the dropping of the tappe for your mornings draught, Sir, 'Tis veritie I assure you. Verity, you brach! The Diuell turn'd precisian? Rogue what am I? Troth durst I trust you with a looking glasle, To let you see your trimme shape, you would quit me, And take the name your selfe. How! dogge? Euen so, Sir. And I must tell you if you but aduance, Your plimworth cloke, you shall be soone instructed There dwells, and within call, if it please your worship, A potent moharch, call'd the Constable, That does command a Citadell, call'd the Stockes; Whose guards are certaine files of rusty Billmen, Such as with great dexterity will hale Your tatter'd, louzie--- Rascall, slaue. No rage, Sir. At his owne perill, doe not put your selfe In too much heate, there being no water neare To quench your thirst, and sure for other liquor, As mighty Ale, or Beere, they are things I take it You must no more remember, not in a dreame Sir. Why thou vnthankefull villaine dar'st thou talke thus? Is not thy house, and all thou hast my gift? I find it not in chalke, and Timothie Tapwell Does keepe no other register. Am not I Hee Whoseriots fed, and cloth'd thee? wert thou not Borne on my fathers land, and proud to bee A drudge in his house? What I was Sir, it skills not, What you are is apparent. Now for a farewel'; Since you talke of father, in my hope it will torment you, I'le briefly tell your story. Your dead father, My quondam master, was a man of worship, Old Sir John Wellborne, Iustice of peace, and quorum, And stood faire to bee Custos rotulorum; Bare the whole sway of the shire; kep't a great house; Relieu'd the poore, and so forth; but Hee dying, And the twelue hundred a yeare comming to you, Late Master Francis, but now forlorne Welborne. Slaue, stoppe, or I shall lose my selfe. Very hardly; You cannot out of your way. But to my story. You were then a Lord of Akers; the prime gallant; And I your vnder-butler; note the change now. You had a merry time of't. Hawkes, and Hounds, With choice of running horses; Mistrisses Of all sorts, and all sizes; yet so hot As their embraces made your Lordships melt; Which your Vncle Sir Giles Ouerreach obseruing, Resoluing not to lose a droppe of'em, On foolish mortgages, statutes, and bonds, For a while suppli'd your loosenesse, and then left you. Some Curate hath penn'd this inuectiue, mongrell, And you haue studied it. I haue not done yet: Your land gone, and your credit not worth a token, You grew the common borrower, no man scap'd Your paper-pelletts, from the Gentleman To the beggers on high wayes, that sold you switches In your gallantry.