Rutter, Joseph · published 1635 · first performed or written 1634 [1633-1635] (Annals) pastoral · Queen Henrietta Maria's Men · before the Court T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.75 · 472 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
TO this fair Company I am to say, You're Welcome all, to a well meaning play, For such our Author made it, with intent To defame none. His Muse is innocent, A Virgin yet, that has not found the ways Out of foul crimes to raise herself a praise; And therefore She desires, you would excuse All bitter strains, that suit a satire Muse: And that which so much takes the Vulgar Ear, Looseness of speech, which they for jests do hear; She hopes none such are here, therefore she dares Venture this story, purged from lighter airs: A piece entire, without or patch, or maim, Round in itself, and everywhere the same. And if there be not in't, what they call wit, There might have been, had it been thought so fit. A Shepherd's Muse gently of love does sing, And with it mingles no impurer thing. Such she presents unto your ears, and eyes, And yet your Christian freedom not denies Of liking, or disliking what you will, You may say this is well, or that is ill, Without dispute; for why should you that pay For what you have, be taught what you should say, Or made to judge by any square, or rule, As if you came not to a Stage, but School? No, he that made it, says, if you will eat, He will not force your stomachs, there's your meat, Which if you like 'tis well, if not, all's one, There must be difference in opinion: Besides, he's sure whatever he could wish, Your taste, and not his Art must praise the dish. HEre in this Grove I left her, here amongst These Poplars, Laurels, and these Sycamores, Guilty of her sad loss: And yet behold They do appear as fresh and full of verdure, As when my Love clothed in her clearest looks, Did give them grace and lustre: Why do we Poor silly men bred up in cares, and fear, The Nurse of our Religion, stoop to Nature, That only knows to form, not to preserve What she has made, since careless of her work, She leaves to giddy Fortune the whole power Of ruling us: These senseless Trees stand still, And flourish too, and in their pride upbraid My loss to me; but my dear Sylvia being Nature's best piece, made to excuse the rest Of all her vulgar forms, ay me! was left To desolation, till some horrid satire Bred in these Woods, and furious in his lusts Made her his prey, and now has carried her Into his dark retirings, or some Cave Where her poor Thyrsis never more shall see her. But I will be revenged, this Wood that now Is so bedecked with leaves and fresh array, I'll level with the ground, until it be As desolate as I.
seed 43: T16 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
TO this faire Company I am to ſay, You're Welcome all, to a well meaning play, For ſuch our Author made it, with intent To defame none. His Muſe is innocent, A Virgin yet, that has not found the wayes Out of foule crimes to raiſe her ſelfe a prayſe; And therefore She deſires, you would excuſe All bitter ſtraines, that ſuite a Satyr Muſe: And that which ſo much takes the Vulgar Eare, Looſenes of ſpeech, which they for jeſts do heare; She hopes none ſuch are here, therfore ſhe dares Venter this ſtory, purg'd from lighter ayres: A piece intire, without or patch, or maime, Round in it ſelfe, and euery where the ſame. And if there be not in't, what they call wit, There might haue bin, had it bin thought ſo fit. A Shepheards Muſe gently of loue does ſing, And with it mingles no impurer thing. Such ſhe preſents vnto your eares, and eyes, And yet your Chriſtian freedome not denies Of liking, or diſliking what you will, You may ſay this is well, or that is ill, Without diſpute; for why ſhould you that pay For what you haue, be taught what you ſhould ſay, Or made to judge by any ſquare, or rule, As if you came not to a Stage, but Schoole? No, he that made it, ſayes, if you will eate, He will not force your ſtomackes, there's your meat, Which if you like tis well, if not, all's one, There muſt be difference in opinion: Beſides, he's ſure what ever hee could wiſh, Your taſte, and not his Art muſt praiſe the diſh. HEre in this Grove I left her, here amongſt Theſe Poplars, Laurells, and theſe Sycamors, Guilty of her ſad loſſe: And yet behold They doe appeare as freſh and full of verdure, As when my Love cloth'd in her cleareſt lookes, Did give them grace and luſtre: Why do we Poore ſilly men bred up in cares, and feare, The Nurſe of our Religion, ſtoope to Nature, That onely knowes to forme, not to preſerve What ſhe has made, ſince careleſſe of her worke, She leaves to giddy Fortune the whole power Of ruling us: Theſe ſenſeleſſe Trees ſtand ſtill, And flouriſh too, and in their pride upbraide My loſſe to me; but my deare Sylvia being Natures beſt peece, made to excuſe the reſt Of all her vulgar formes, ay me! was left To deſolation, till ſome horrid Satyr Bred in theſe Woods, and furious in his luſts Made her his prey, and now has carried her Into his darke retirings, or ſome Cave Where her poore Thyrſis never more ſhall ſee her. But I will be reveng'd, this Wood that now Is ſo bedeckt with leaves and freſh array, Ile levell with the ground, untill it be As deſolate as I.