Digital Renaissance Editions

About this text

  • Title: The Honest Whore, Part 2 (Quarto 1, 1630)
  • 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.
    Author: Thomas Dekker
    Editor: Joost Daalder
    Not Peer Reviewed

    The Honest Whore, Part 2 (Quarto 1, 1630)

    The Honest Whore.
    rest meat: I ha got a stomacke with chasing. What Rogue
    should tell him of those two Pedlers? A plague choake him,
    and gnaw him to the bare bones: come fill.
    Bel. Thou sweatest with very anger, good sweet, vex not,
    1810'las, 'tis no fault of mine.
    Mat. Where didst buy this Mutton? I neuer felt better
    Bel. A neighbour sent it me.
    Enter Orlando.
    1815Mat. Hah, neighbour? foh, my mouth stinkes, you whore,
    doe you beg victuals for me? Is this Sattin doublet to bee
    bumbasted with broken meat? Takes vp the stoole.
    Orl. What will you doe, sir?
    Mat. Beat out the braines of a beggerly-- Exit Beliafront.
    1820Orl. Beat out an Asses head of your owne; away, Mistris.
    Zownds, doe but touch one haire of her, and Ile so quilt
    your cap with old Iron, that your coxcombe shall ake the
    worse these seuen yeeres for't: Does she looke like a roasted
    Rabbet, that you must haue the head for the braines?
    1825Mat. Ha, ha: Goe out of my doores, you Rogue, away,
    foure markes trudge.
    Orl. Foure markes? no, sir, my twenty pound that you ha
    made flie hie, and I am gone.
    Mat. Must I be fed with chippings? y'are best get a clap-
    1830dish, and say y'are Proctor to some Spittle-house. Where
    hast thou beene, Pacheco? come hither my little Turky-
    Orl. I cannot abide, sir, to see a woman wrong'd, not I.
    Mat. Sirra, here was my Father-in-law to day.
    1835Orl. Pish, then y'are full of Crownes.
    Mat. Hang him, he would ha thrust crownes vpon me, to
    haue falne in againe, but I scorne cast-cloathes, or any mans
    Orl. But mine: how did he brooke that (sir?)
    1840Mat. Oh: swore like a dozen of drunken Tinkers; at last
    growing foule in words, he and foure of his men drew vp-
    on me, sir.
    G 3 Orl.