Digital Renaissance Editions

Become a FriendSign in

About this text

  • Title: The Honest Whore, Part 1 (Quarto 2, 1604)
  • Editor: Joost Daalder
  • ISBN: 978-1-55058-490-5

    Copyright Digital Renaissance Editions. This text may be freely used for educational, non-profit purposes; for all other uses contact the Editor.
    Authors: Thomas Dekker, Thomas Middleton
    Editor: Joost Daalder
    Peer Reviewed

    The Honest Whore, Part 1 (Quarto 2, 1604)

    1095As many by one harlot, maym'd and dismembred,
    As would ha stuft an Hospitall: this I might
    Apply to you, and perhaps doe you right:
    O y'are as base as any bea st that beares,
    Your body is ee'ne hirde, and so are theirs.
    1100For gold and sparkling iewels, (if he can)
    Youle let a Iewe get you with chri stian:
    Be he a Moore, a Tartar, tho his face
    Looke vglier then a dead mans scull,
    Could the diuel put on a humane shape,
    1105 If his purse shake out crownes, vp then he gets,
    Whores will be rid to hell with golden bits:
    So that y'are crueller then Turkes, for they
    Sell Chri stians onely, you sell your selues away.
    Why those that loue you, hate you: and will terme you
    1110Lickeri sh damnation: wi sh themselues halfe sunke
    After the sin is laid out; and ee'ne curse
    Their fruitle s s e riot, (for what one begets
    Another poisons) lu st and murder hit,
    A tree being often shooke, what fruit can knit?
    1115 Bell. O me vnhappy!
    Hip. I can vexe you more;
    A harlot is like Dunkirke, true to none,
    Swallowes both Engli sh, Spani sh, fulsome Dutch,
    Blacke-doord Italian, la st of all the French,
    1120And he sticks to you faith: giues you your diet,
    Brings you acquainted, fir st with mon sier Doctor,
    And then you know what followes.
    Bell. Misery.
    Ranke, stinking, and mo st loathsome misery.
    1125 Hip. Me thinks a toad is happier then a whore,
    That with one poison swells, with thousands more
    The other stocks her veines: harlot? fie! fie,
    You are the miserable st Creatures breathing,
    The very slaues of nature: marke me else,
    1130You put on rich attires, others eyes weare them,
    You eat, but to supply your blood with sin,
    And this strange curse ee'ne haunts you to your graues.