Dekker, Thomas · published 1636 · first performed or written 1631 [1619-1631] (Annals) comedy · Prince Charles's Men (first) (?) T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.78 · 511 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
THus from the Poet, I am bid to say; He knows what judges sit to Doom each Play, (The Overcurious Critic, or the Wise) The one with squint; 'Tother with sun-like eyes, Shoots through each scene; The one cries all things down Tother, hides strangers Faults, close as his Own: 'las! Those that out of custom come to jeer, (Sung the full choir of the Nine Muses here) So Carping,— not from Wit, but Apish spite, And Feathered Ignorance,— Thus! o Poet does slight. 'Tis not a gay suit, or Distorted Face, Can beat his Merit off,— Which has won Grace In the full Theater;— Nor can now fear The Teeth of any Snaky whisperer; But to the white, and sweet unclowded Brow, (The heaven where true worth moves) our Poet does bow: Patrons of Arts, and Pilots to the Stage, Who guide it (through all Tempests) from the Rage Of envious Whirlwinds,— o, do you but steer His Muse, This day; And bring her toth' wished shore, You are those Delphic Powers whom she'll adore. we surfeit here on Pleasures: Seas nor Land Cannot invite us to a Feast more glorious, Than this day we have sat at: my Lord Vanni, You have an excellent seat here; 'tis a building May entertain a Caesar: but you and I Should rather talk of Tombs, than Palaces, Let's leave all to our heirs, for we are old. Old! hem? all heart of brass, sound as a bell, Old? why, I'll tell your Graces; I have gone But half the bridge over yet; there lies before me As much as I have passed, and I'll go it all. Mad Vanni still. Old Oaks do not easily fall: December's cold hand combs my head and beard, But May swims in my blood; and he that walks Without his wooden third leg, is never old. What is your age my Lord? Age, what call you age? I have lived some half a day, some half an hour. A tree of three-score-years' growth; nothing. A mere slip, you have kept good diet my lord. Let whores keep diet, Tibaldo ne'er; never did Rivers run In wilder, madder streams, than I have done, I'll drink as hard yet as an Englishman, And they are now best Drinkers. They put down the Dutch-men clean, I'll yet upon a wager hit any fencer's button, Some of 'em ha' no buttons to their doublets. Then knave I'll hit his flesh, and hit your cocks- If you cross mine once more. (comb Nay be not angry. I have my passes: and my Passadoes, My lunges, my Stoccadoes, Imbrocadoes, And all my Pimtoes, and Pimtillioes Here at my finger's ends. By my faith 'tis well. Old why; I ne'er took Physic, nor ever will, I'll trust none that has Art and leave to kill: Now for that chopping herb of hell Tobacco; The idle-man's-devil, and the drunkard's-whore, I never meddled with her, my smoke goes, Out at my kitchen chimney, not my nose. And some Lords have no chimneys but their noses.
seed 43: T16 · seed 44: T15 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
THus from the Poet, I am bid to say; Hee knows what Iudges sit to Doome each Play, (The Over-curious Critick, or the Wise) The one with squint; 'Tother with Sunn-like eyes, Shootes through each scaene; The one cries all things down Tother, hides strangers Faults, close as his Owne: Las! Those that out of custome come to jeere, (Sung the full quire of the Nine Muses heere) So Carping,—not from Wit, but Apish spite, And Fether'd Ignorance,—Thus! ô Poet does slight. 'Tis not a gay sute, or Distorted Face, Can beate his Merit off,—Which has won Grace In the full Theater;—Nor can now feare The Teeth of any Snaky whisperer; But to the white, and sweete unclowded Brow, (The heaven where true worth moves) our Po do's bow: Patrons of Arts, and Pilots to the Stage, Who guide it (through all Tempests) from the Rage Of envious Whirlewindes,—ô, doe you but steere His Muse, This day; And bring her toth' wished shore, You are those Delphick Powers whom shee'le adore. WEe surfit heere on Pleasures: Seas nor Land Cannot invite us to a Feast more glorious, Then this day we have sat at: my Lord Vanni, You have an excellent seate heere; Tis a building May entertaine a Caesar: but you and I Should rather talke of Tombs, then Pallaces, Let's leave all to our hoires, for we are old. Old! hem? all heart of brasse, sound as a bell, Old? why, Ile tell your Graces; I have gone But halfe the bridge ore yet; there lies before me As much as I have pass'd, and I'le goe it all. Mad Vanni still. Old Oakes doe not easily fall: Decembers cold hand combes my head and beard, But May swimmes in my blood; and he that walkes Without his wooden third legge, is never old. What is your age my Lord? Age, what call you age? I have liv'd some halfe a day, some halfe an houre. A tree of threescore-yeares growth; nothing. A meere slip, you have kept good diet my lord. Let whores kepe diet, Tibaldo ner'e; never did Rivers runn In wilder, madder streames, then I have done, I'le drinke as hard yet as an Englishman, And they are now best Drinkers. They put downe the Dutch-men cleane, Ile yet upon a wager hit any fencers button, Some of 'em ha' no buttons to their doublets. Then knave Ile hit his flesh, and hit your cocks- If you crosse mine once more. (combe Nay be not angry. I have my Passees: and my Passadoes, My Longes, my Stockadoes, Imbrocadoes, And all my Pimtoes, and Pimtillioes Here at my fingers ends. By my faith 'tis well. Old why; I ne're tooke Phisicke, nor ever will, I'le trust none that has Art and leave to kill: Now for that chopping herbe of hell Tobacco; The idle-mans-Devill, and the Drunkards-whore, I never medled with her, my smoake goes, Out at my kitchin chimney, not my nose. And some Lords have no chimnies but their noses.