Randolph, Thomas · published 1638 · first performed or written 1630 [licensed for stage, Nov 25] (Annals) moral · King's Revels Company unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 512 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
This is Agroicus, a rustic clownish fellow, whose discourse is all Country; An extreme of urbanity, whereby you may observe there is a virtue in jesting. They talk of witty discourse, and fine conceits, and I ken not what a deal of prittle prattle would make a Cat piss to hear 'em. Cannot they be content with their Granam's English? They think they talk learnedly, when I had rather hear our brindled cur howl, or Sow grunt. They must be breaking of jests with a murrain, when I had as live hear 'em break wind Sir reverence! My son Dick is a pretty Bookish Scholar of his age, God bless him; he can write and read, and makes bonds, and bills, and hobligations, God save all. But by'r lady, if I wotted it would make him such a jacksauce, as to have more wit than his vore-vathers, he should have learned nothing for old Agroicus, but to keep a Tally. There is a new trade lately come up to be a vocation, I wis not what; they call 'em— Boets, a new name for Beggars I think, since the statute against Gypsies. I would not have my zon Dick one of those Boets for the best Pig in my styeby the mackins: Boets? heaven shield him, and zend him to be a good Varmer; if he can cry hy, ho, give, hut, give, ho, it is better I trow then being a Poet. Boets? I had rather see him remitted to the jail, and have his twelve God-vathers, good men and true contemn him to the Gallows; and there see him vairely persecuted. There is Bomolochus one of these Boets, now a bots take all the red-nose tribe of 'em for Agroicus! he does so abuse his betters! well 'twas a good world, when I virst held the Blow! They cared not then so much for speaking well As to mean honest, and in you still lives The good simplicity of the former times: When to do well was Rhetoric, not to talk. The tongue disease of Court spreads her infections Through the whole Kingdom, flattery, that was wont To be confined within the virge, is now Grown Epidemical, for all our thoughts Are borne between our lips: The heart is made A stranger to the tongue; as if it used A language that she never understood. What is it to be witty in these days, But to be bawdy, or profane, at least Abusive? Wit is grown a petulant wasp, And stings she knows not whom, nor where, nor why; Spews vinegar, and gall on all she meets Without distinction— buys laughter with the loss Of reputation, father, kinsman, friend; Hunt's Ordinaries only to deliver The idle Timpanies of a windy brain, That beats and throbs above the pain of childbed, Till every ear she meets be made a mid wife To her light Bastard-issue, how many times Bomolochus sides, and shoulders ache, and groan! he's so witty— here he comes— away— His wit is dangerous and I dare not stay.
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)
This is Agroicus, a rustique clownish fellow, whose discourse is all Country; An extreame of urbanity, whereby you may observe there is a vertue in jesting. They talke of witty discourse, and fine conceits, and I ken not what a deale of prittle prattle would make a Cat pisse to heare 'em. Cannot they be content with their Grannams English? They thinke they talke learnedly, when I had rather heare our brindled curre howle, or Sow grunt. They must be breaking of jests with a murraine, when I had as live heare 'em breake wind Sir reverence! My zonne Dick is a pretty Bookish Scholar of his age, God blesse him; he can write and read, and makes bonds, and bills, and hobligations, God save all. But by'r lady, if I wotted it would make him such a Iacksauce, as to have more wit then his vore-vathers, he should have learn'd nothing for old Agroicus, but to keepe a Tally. There is a new trade lately come up to be a vocation, I wis not what; they call 'em—Boets, a new name for Beggars I think, since the statute against Gypsies. I would not have my zon Dick one of those Boets for the best Pig in my styeby the mackins: Boets? heau'n shield him, and zend him to be a good Varmer; if he can cry hy, ho, gee, hut, gee, ho, it is better I trow then being a Poet. Boets? I had rather zee him remitted to the jayle, and haue his twelve God-vathers, good men and true contemne him to the Gallowes; and there see him vairely persecuted. There is Bomolochus one of these Boets, now a bots take all the red-nose tribe of 'em for Agroicus! he does so abuse his betters! well 'twas a good world, when I virst held the Plow! They car'd not then so much for speaking well As to mean honest, and in you still lives The good simplicity of the former times: When to doe well was Rhetorique, not to talke. The tongue disease of Court spreads her infections Through the whole Kingdome, flattery, that was wont To be confin'd within the virge, is now Grown Epidemicall, for all our thoughts Are borne between our lips: The heart is made A stranger to the tongue; as if it us'd A language that she never understood. What is it to be witty in these daies, But to be bawdy, or prophane, at least Abusive? Wit is grown a petulant waspe, And stings she knows not whom, nor where, nor why; Spues vinegar, and gall on all she meets Without distinction—buyes laughter with the losse Of reputation, father, kinsman, friend; Hunts Ord'naries only to deliver The idle Timpanies of a windy braine, That beats and throbs above the paine of child-bed, Till every eare she meets be made a mid wife To her light Bastard-issue, how many times Bomolochus sides, and shoulders ake, and groane! Hee's so witty—here he comes—away— His wit is dangerous and I dare not stay.