Cartwright, William · published 1639 · first performed or written 1636 [Aug 30] (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men · before the Court unassigned nearest T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
Can you expect then perfect motion, where 'Tis the Digression only of our Sphere Which wheels in this new course, t' express the sense Of your approach, it's best Intelligence? O were you still fixed to it! your resort, Makes us desire an everlasting Course. And though we've read you o'er so long, that we Begin to know each line of Majesty, We think you snatched too soon, and grieve, as they Who for an half year's night, part with their day. And shall, till your return, though you appear In favours still, think darkness in our Sphere. Your sight will be preserved yet, though you rise: whene'er you go, Great Sir, hearts will have eyes. THus cited to a second night, we've here Ventured our Errors to your weighing Ear. we'd thought they'd have been dead, as soon as borne; For Dreams do seldom live until the morn. There's difference twixt a College and a Court; The one expecteth Science, th' other sport. Parts should be Dialogues there, but Points to you: They look for pleasing, you for sound, and true. We fear then we have injured those, whose Age Doth make the Schools the measure of the Stage: And justly thence for want of Logic darts, May dread those sturdy Yeomen of the Arts. We are not trained yet to the Trade, none's fit To fine for Poet, or for Player yet. We hope you'll like it then, although rough filed; As the Nurse loves the lisping of the child. The Slave (then truly Royal, if you shall By your smiles too redeem him from his fall) Hopes you'll dismiss him so, that he may swear, One Court being gone, he found another here. Though raised from Slave to King, he vows he will Resume his former Bonds, and be yours still. THe unfiled Author, though he be assured, That a bad Poet is a thing secured. fear's yet he may miscarry, for some do Having just nothing, lose that nothing too. His comfort's yet, that though the Incense fly Foul and unwelcome, and so scattered die, Neither the blot nor sin can on him stand, Being the censor's in another hand. For though the Piece be now marked his, and known: Yet the Repeaters make that Piece their own. Being then a new Reciter some way is Another Author, we are thus made his. we therefore hope nothing shall here be seen To make the Slave appeal from King or Queen: From yourselves here, t'your selves at Oxford; grace And favour altering with the time and Place, So that some thence may deem it happy fell There only, where you meant to take all well. 'Tis then your Countenance that is the price Must redeem this, and free the Captive twice. He fears ill fate the less, in that if you Now kill him, you kill your own favour too. How ere he will not 'gainst injustice cry; For you who made him live, may make him die.
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)
Can you expect then perfect motion, where 'Tis the Digression only of our Spheare Which wheeles in this new course, expresse the sense Of your approach, it's best Intelligence? O were you still fix'd to it! your resort, Makes us desire an everlasting Cours. And though wee've read you o're so long, that we Begin to know each line of Majesty, We thinke you snatch'd too soone, and grieve, as they Who for an halfe yeare's night, part with their day. And shall, till your returne, though you appeare In favours still, thinke darkenesse in our Spheare. Your sight will be preserv'd yet, though you rise▪ When e're you goe, Great Sir, hearts will have eyes. THus cited to a second night, wee've here Ventur'd our Errours to your weighing Eare. Wee'd thought they'd have beene dead, as soone as borne; For Dreames doe seldome live untill the morne. There's difference 'twixt a Colledge and a Court; The one expecteth Science, th' other sport. Parts should be Dialogues there, but Poynts to you: They looke for pleasing, you for sound, and true. We feare then we have injur'd those, whose Age Doth make the Schooles the measure of the Stage: And justly thence for want of Logicke darts, May dread those sturdy Yeomen of the Arts. We are not trayn'd yet to the Trade, none's fit To fine for Poet, or for Player yet. We hope you'le like it then, although rough fil'd; As the Nurse loves the lisping of the child. The Slave (then truly Royall, if you shall By your smiles too redeeme him from his fall) Hopes you'le dismisse him so, that he may sweare, One Court being gone, he found another here. Though raysd from Slave to King, he vowes he will Resume his former Bonds, and be yours still. THe unfil'd Author, though he be assur'd, That a bad Poet is a thing secur'd. Feare's yet he may miscarry, for some doe Having just nothing, loose that nothing too. His comfort's yet, that though the Incense fly Foule and unwelcome, and so scatter'd die, Neither the blot nor sinne can on him stand, Being the Censer's in another hand. For though the Peece be now mark'd his, and knowne: Yet the Repeaters make that Peece their owne. Being then a new Reciter some way is Another Author, we are thus made his. Wee therefore hope nothing shall here be seene To make the Slave appeale from King or Queene: From your selves here, t'your selves at Oxford; grace And favour altring with the time and Place, So that some thence may deeme it happy fell There only, where you meant to take all well. 'Tis then your Countenance that is the price Must redeeme this, and free the Captive twice. He feares ill fate the lesse, in that if you Now kill him, you kill your owne favour too. How e're he will not gainst injustice cry; For you who made him live, may make him dy.