Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
Do it then for me. And every line must be A whip to draw blood. Better. And to dare The stab from him it touches: he that writes Such Libels (as you call'em) must launch wide The sores of men's corruptions, and even search Toth' quick for dead flesh, or for rotten cores: A poet's Ink can better cure some sores Then Surgeons balsam. Undertake that Cure, And crown thy verse with bays. Madam I le do't: But I must have the party's Character. The King. I do not love to pluck the quills With which I make pens, out of a lion's claw: The King! should I be bitter 'gainst the King, I shall have scurvy ballads made of me, Sung to the Hanging Tune. I dare not, Madam. This baseness follows your profession: You are like common Beadles, apt to lash Almost to death poor wretches not worth striking, But fawn with slavish flattery on damned vices, So great men act them: you clap hands at those, Where the true Poet indeed doth scorn to guild A gaudy Tomb with glory of his Verse, Which coffins stinking Carrion: no, his lines Are free as his Invention; no base fear Can shake his pen to Temporize even with Kings, The blacker are their crimes, he louder sings. Go, go, thou canst not write: 'tis but my calling The muse's help, that I may be inspired: Cannot a woman be a Poet, Sir? Yes, Madam, best of all; for Poesy Is but a feigning, feigning is to lie, And women practise lying more than men. Nay, but if I should write, I wooed tell truth: How might I reach a lofty strain? Thus, Madam: Books, Music, Wine, brave Company, and good Cheer, Make Poets to soar high, and sing most clear. Are they borne Poets? Yes. Die they? Oh never die. My misery is then a Poet sure, For Time has given it an Eternity: What sorts of Poets are there? Two sorts, Lady: The great Poets, and the small Poets. Great and small! Which do you call the great? the fat ones? No: but such as have great heads, which emptied forth, Fill all the world with wonder at their lines; Fellows which swell big with the wind of praise: The small ones are but shrimps of Poesy. Which in the kingdom now is the best Poet? Emulation. Which the next? Necessity. And which the worst? self-love. Say I turn Poet, what should I get? Opinion. 'Las I have got too much of that already; Opinion is my Evidence, judge, and jury; Mine own guilt, and opinion, now condemn me; I'll therefore be no Poet; no, nor make Ten Muses of your nine; I swear for this; Verses, though freely borne, like slaves are sold, I Crown thy lines with bays, thy love with gold: So fare thou well. Our pen shall honour you. The poet's book, Madam, has got the Inflammation of the Livor, it died of a burning Fever.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Doe it then for me. And every line must be A whip to draw blood. Better. And to dare The stab from him it touches: he that writes Such Libels (as you call'em) must lanch wide The fores of mens corruptions, and even search To'th quicke for dead flesh, or for rotten cores: A Poets Inke can better cure some sores Then Surgeons Balsum. Vndertake that Cure, And crowne thy verse with Bayes. Madam I le doo't: But I must haue the parties Character. The King. I doe not love to plucke the quils With which I make pens, out of a Lions claw: The King! shoo'd I be bitter 'gainst the King, I shall have scurvy ballads made of me, Sung to the Hanging Tune. I dare not, Madam. This basenesse followes your profession: You are like common Beadles, apt to lash Almost to death poore wretches not worth striking, But fawne with flavish flattery on damn'd vices, So great men act them: you clap hands at those, Where the true Poet indeed doth scorne to guild A gawdy Tombe with glory of his Verse, Which cosins stinking Carrion: no, his lines Are free as his Invention; no base feare Can shake his penne to Temporize even with Kings, The blacker are their crimes, he lowder sings. Goe, goe, thou canst not write: 'tis but my calling The Muses helpe, that I may be inspir'd: Cannot a woman be a Poet, Sir? Yes, Madam, best of all; for Poesie Is but a feigning, feigning is to lye, And women practise lying more than men. Nay, but if I shoo'd write, I woo'd tell truth: How might I reach a lofty straine? Thus, Madam: Bookes, Musicke, Wine, brave Company, and good Cheere, Make Poets to soare high, and sing most cleare. Are they borne Pots? Yes. Dye they? Oh never dye. My misery is then a Poet sure, For Time has given it an Eternity: What sorts of Poets are there? Two sorts, Lady: The great Poets, and the small Poets. Great and small! Which doe you call the great? the fat ones? No: but such as have great heads, which emptied forth▪ Fill all the world with wonder at their lines; Fellowes which swell bigge with the wind of praise: The small ones are but shrimpes of Poesie. Which in the kingdome now is the best Poet? Emulation. Which the next? Necessity. And which the worst? Selfe-love. Say I turne Poet, what should I get? Opinion. 'Las I have got too much of that already; Opinion is my Evidence, Iudge, and Iury; Mine owne guilt, and opinion, now condemne me; I'le therefore be no Poet; no, nor make Ten Muses of your nine; I sweare for this; Verses, tho freely borne, like slaves are sold, I Crowne thy lines with Bayes, thy love with gold: So fare thou well. Our pen shall honour you. The Poets booke, Madam, has got the Inflammation of the Livor, it dyed of a burning Faver.