Early Modern Drama · Character Archetypes

GRAUSIS

in The Broken Heart — Ford, John

Metadata

PlayThe Broken Heart
AuthorFord, John
Year (catalogued)1633
Decade1630s
Speech prefix(es)Gran. | Grans.
Words292
Characters1519
Typicality0.37 (cosine to cluster centroid)
TCP idA01046
ClusterCluster 0 — Clowns, beggars & street sellers

Important excerpts

Passages from this character's speech that contain the most distinguishing words for Cluster 0 (shillings, tom, guts, mutton, wares, dan…). Matches are highlighted.

a chopping boy d'ee good at heart? But as you said, Pray speak louder Sure, , the wind blows South still, You dote. You are beside your self. A Politician In jealousy? No, you're too gross, too vulgar. Pish, teach not me my trade, I know my we: My crossing you, sinks me into her trust, By which I shall know all: my rade's a sure

Full speech

In sooth not well, She is so oversad. Now it's well said my Lord, what Lady? laugh, Be merry, time is precious. Island? prison: A prison is as gaysome: wee'll no Islands: Marry out upon they, whom shall we see there? Sea-guls, and Porpiseis, and water-rats, And Crabs, and Mews, and Dogfish? goodly gear For a young Ladies dealing, or and old ones. On no terms Islands, I'll be stewed first. I am thick of hearing Still when the wind blows Southerly. What think 'e , If your fresh Lady bre worser young bones (my Lord?) Wood not a chopping boy d'ee good at heart? But as you said, Pray speak louder Sure, , the wind blows South still, You dote. You are beside your self. A Politician In jealousy? No, you're too gross, too vulgar. Pish, teach not me my trade, I know my we: My crossing you, sinks me into her trust, By which I shall know all: my rade's a sure one. Fear not, I am no new-come-too't. Now you're in humours. Very wholesome truly. Yes, I will Sir. Oh sweet man! Thou art the very honeycomb of honesty. Not a mouse, Or whisper of the wind. What do you mean (my Lord) speak low; that gambling Of yours will but undo us. Sweet Lady come not near him He holds his perilous weapon in his hand To prick he cares not whom, nor where,— see, see, see. Out on him, These are his migraine, firks and melancholies. Alas kind Animal. What will you do my Lord? my Lady's gone, I am denied to follow. And feel her too, man, Be of good cheer, she's your own flesh and bone. True on my modesty. Fair blessings on thy heart.