R., W. · published 1633 · first performed or written 1622 [1621-1623] (Annals) comedy · Red Bull (Revels) Company (first) (?) T47 Knaves, thieves and bawds typicality 0.77 · 524 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T47: knave, rogue, money, knaves, thief, rogues, pray, whore, nichol, book.
Wood my girdle may break if I do. I have a mind. Niggers noggers I wonot. Nay nay, now his great oath's past, there's no talk on't, I like him ne'er the worse, there's an old saw sort, A kiss first, next the feeling sense, Crack say the purse strings, out fly the pence. But he can talk though, whose Boy are you Tim? Your boy forsooth Father. Can ye turn and wind a penny Tim. Better than yourself forsooth father. You have looked in the Church book late, how old are you Tim? Two and twenty years, three months, three days, and three quarters of an hour, forsooth Father. He has arithmetic. And Grammer too, what's Latin for your head Tim? Caput. But what for the head of a block? Caput blockhead. Do ye hear, your ear. Aura. Your eye. Occules. That's for one eye, what's Latin for two. Occulies, occulies. An admirable accidental grammarian I protest sir. This boy shall have all, I have an elder rogue that sucks and draws me, a Tavern academician: one that protests to Whores, and shires with Highway lawyers; an arrant unclarified Rogue, that drinks nothing but wicked Sack. Here's a Gentleman would speak with you, Look, look, now he's come for more money. A very hopeful house to match into wench, the Father a Knave, one son a drunkard, and other a fool. O monster Father, look if he be not drunk, the very sight of him makes me long for a cup of six. Pray Father, pray to God to bless me. Look, look, takes his brother for his Father. Alas Sir, when the drink's in, the wit's out, and none but wise children know their own Fathers. Why I am none of your Father, brother, I am Tim, do ye know Tim. Yes, umph— for a coxcomb. How wild he looks: good sir we'll take our leaves. Shalt not go faith Widow: you Cheater Rogue, must I ha' my friends frighted out my house by you, look he'll steal nothing to feast his Bawds, get ye out sirrah, there are Constables, Beadles, whips, and the College of extravaging, yclept Bridewell ye Rogue, ye Rogue there is, there is— mark that. Can you send me a Mark upon this Ring sir, and there set it down in your Book, and umph— mark that. I'll have no stolen Rings, picked out of pockets, or taken upon the way, not I. I'll give you an old saw for't. There's a Rogue mocks his Father, sirrah, get' ye gone, Sim, go let lose the Mastiff. Alas sir, he'll tear and pull out your son's throat. Better pull't out, than a halter stretched, away out of my doors rogue, I defy thee. Must you be my Mother in Law? So your father says sir. You see the worst of your eldest son, I abuse nobody. The Rogue will fall upon her. I will tell ye an old saw. Pray let's hear it. An old man is a bed full of bones, and who can it deny, By whom (umph) a young wench lies and grieves, for better company.
nodes 72–123 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 3 of 37 in this edition
Length
524 words · 734 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T47 — Knaves, thieves and bawdscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.773 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T46 · seed 44: T41 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Wood my girdle may breake if I doe. I have a minde. Niggers noggers I wonnot. Nay nay, novv his great oath's past, ther's no talke on't, ke him nere the worse, ther's an old savv sort, A kisse first, next the feeling sence, Cracke say the purse strings, out flie the penee. But he can talke though, whose Boy are you Tim? Your boy forsooth Father. Can ye turne and vvind a penny Tim. Better then yourselfe forsooth father. You have look't in the Church booke late, bovv olde are you Tim? Tvvo and tvventy yeeres, three moneths', three dayes, and three quarters of an houre, forsooth Father. He has Arethmaticke. And Grammer too, vvhat's Latine for your head Tim? Caput. But vvhat for the head of a blocke? Caput blockhead. Doe ye heare, your eare. Aura. Your eye. Occules. That's for one eye, vvhat's Latine for tvvo. Occulies, occulies. An admirable accidentall Gramarian I protest sir. This boy shall have all, I have an elder rogue that sucks and dravves mee, a saverne Accademian: one that protests to Whores, and shires vvith High-vvay lavvyers; an arrant unclarified Rogue, that drinkes nothing but vvicked Sacke. Here's a Gentleman would speake with you, Looke, looke, novv hee's come for more money. A very hopefull house to match into wench, the Father a Knave, one sonne a drunkard, and tother a foole. O monster Father, looke if hee bee not drunke, the very sight of him makes me long for a cup of sixe. Pray Father, pray to God to blesse me. Looke, looke, takes his brother for his Father. Alas Sir, when the drink's in, the wit's out, and none but wise children know their owne Fathers. Why I am none of your Father, brother, I am Tim, doe ye know Tim. Yes, umph—for a coxecombe. How wild he lookes: good sir weele take our leaves. Shalt not goe faith Widdow: you Cheater Rogue, must I ha my friends frighted out my house by you, looke heele steale nothing to feast his Bawdes, get ye out sirrah, there are Constables, Beadles, whips, and the Colledge of extravaging, Eclipt Bridewell yee Rogue, yee Rogue there is, there is—marke that. Can you send mee a Marke vpon this Ring sir, and there set it downe in your Booke, and vmph—marke that. Ile have no stolne Rings, pickt out of pockets, or taken upon the way, not I. Ile give you an old saw for't. There's a Rogue mocks his Father, sirrah, get 'ye gone, Sim, goe let loose the Mastiffe. Alas sir, heele teare and pull out your sonnes throate. Better pul't out, then a halter stretch't, away out of my doores rogue, I defie thee. Must you be my Mother in Law? So your father sayes sir. You see the worst of your eldest sonne, I abuse no body. The Rogue will fall upon her. I will tell ye an old sawe. Pray let's heare it. An old man is a bed full of bones, and who can it denie, By whom (vmph) a yong wench lyes and greanes, for better companie.