Mayne, Jasper · published 1639 · first performed or written 1637 [1637-1638(?)] (Annals) comedy · King's Men · before the Court T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.76 · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
THE Author, Royal Sir, so dreads this Night, As if for writing he were doomed to th'sight. Or else, unless you do protect his fame, Y' had saved his Play, and sentenced him to th' flame. For though your name, or power, were i'th' reprieve, Such works, he thinks, are but condemned to live. Which, for this place being rescued from the fire, Take ruin from th'advancement, and fall higher. Though None, he hopes, sit here upon his wit, As if he Poems did, or Plays commit. Yet he must needs fear censure, that fears praise, Nor would write still were't to succeed i'th' bays. For he is not o'th' trade, nor would excel In this kind, where 'tis lightness to do well. Yet as the God's refined base things, and some Beasts foul i'th' Herd grew pure i'th' Hecatomb; And as the Ox prepared, and crowned Bull Are Offerings, though kept back, and Altars full: So, Mighty Sir, this sacrifice being near The Knife at Oxford, which y' have kindled here, He hopes 'twill from you, and the Queen, grow clean, And turn t' Oblation, what He meant a Scene. WEre it his trade, the Author bid me say, Perchance he'd beg you would be good to th' Play. And I, to set him up in Reputation, Should hold a Basin forth for Approbation. But praise so gained, He thinks, were a Relief Able to make his Comedy a Brief. For where your pity must your judgement be, 'tis not a Play, but you fired houses see. Look not his quill, then, should petitions run; No gather's here into a Prologue spun. Whither their sold Scenes be disliked, or hit, Are cares for them who eat by th' stage, and wit. He's One, whose unbought Muse did never fear An Empty second day, or a thin share; But can make th' Actors, though you come not twice, No losers, since we act now at the king's price. Who hath made this Play public, and the same Power that makes Laws, redeemed this from the flame. For th' Author builds no fame, nor doth aspire To praise, from that which he condemned to th' fire. He's thus secure, then, that he cannot win A Censure sharper than his own hath been. I Promise you 'twill be a most rare plot. The City, Mr Seathrift, never yet Brought forth the like; I would have them that have Fined twice for Sheriff mend it. Mend it? Why 'tis past the wit o'th' Court of Aldermen. Next Merchant tailor that writes Chronicles Will put us in. For, since I took him home, Though, Sir, my Nephew, as you may observe, Seem quite transfigured, be as dutiful As a new prentice; in his talk declaim 'gainst revelling Companions, be as hard To be enticed from home as my door posts; This reformation may but be his part, And he may act his virtues. I have not Forgot his riots at the Temple. You know Sir—
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)
THE Author, Royall Sir, so dreads this Night, As if for writing he were doomd to th'sight. Or else, unlesse you doe protect his fame, Y' had sav'd his Play, and sentenc'd him to th' flame. For though your name, or power, were ith'reprive, Such workes, he thinks, are but condemn'd to live. Which, for this place being rescued from the fire, Take ruine from th'advancement, and fall higher. Though None, he hopes, sit here upon his wit, As if he Poems did, or Playes commit. Yet he must needs feare censure, that feares prayse, Nor would write still wer't to succeed ith' Bayes. For he is not oth' trade, nor would excell In this kinde, where tis lightnesse to doe well. Yet as the Gods refin'd base things, and some Beasts foule ith' Heard grevv pure ith' Hecatombe; And as the Oxe prepar'd, and crowned Bull Are Offerings, though kept back, and Altars full: So, Mighty Sir, this sacrifice being neere The Knife at Oxford, which y' have kindled here, He hopes twill from you, and the Queene, grow cleane, And turne t' Oblation, what He meant a Scene. WEre it his trade, the Author bid me say, Perchance he'd beg you would be good to th' Play. And I, to set him up in Reputation, Should hold a Bason forth for Approbation. But praise so gain'd, He thinks, were a Reliefe Able to make his Comoedy a Briefe. For where your pitty must your judgement be, Tis not a Play, but you fir'd houses see. Look not his quill, then, should petitions run; No Gathering's heere into a Prologue spun. Whither their sold Scenes be dislikt, or hit, Are cares for them who eat by th' stage, and wit. He's One, whose unbought Muse did never feare An Empty second day, or a thinne share; But can make th' Actors, though you come not twice, No Loosers, since we act now at the Kings price. Who hath made this Play publique, and the same Power that makes Lawes, redeem'd this from the flame. For th' Author builds no fame, nor doth aspire To praise, from that which he condemn'd to th' fire. He's thus secure, then, that he cannot winne A Censure sharper then his own hath beene. I Promise you 'twill be a most rare plot. The Citty, Mr Seathrift, never yet Brought forth the like; J would have them that have Fin'd twice for Sheriffe mend it. Mend it? Why Tis past the wit oth' Court of Aldermen. Next Merchant Taylor that writes Chronicles Will put us in. For, since I tooke him home, Though, Sir, my Nephew, as you may observe, Seeme quite transfigur'd, be as dutifull As a new prentice; in his talke declaime Gainst revelling Companions, be as hard To be entic'd from home as my doore posts▪ This reformation may but be his part, And he may act his vertues. I have not Forgot his riots at the Temple. You know Sr—