Richards, Nathaniel · published 1640 · first performed or written 1635 [1634-1636] (Annals) tragedy · King's Revels Company T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.72 · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
TO write a Tragedy is no such ease As some may think, 'mongst whom there's a disease Still of dislike, censuring whate'er is writ With ignorance; only to be thought a wit. Plays are like several meats, their strange effects So different prove, some carelessly neglect what others long for, that which surfeits thee, Another says 'tis good, gives life to me. What's to be done? the way to please you all Requires an Art, past Magic natural. Our best endeavours still with Comic fare Have strived to please; now all our cost and care, Soars on the wings of laboured industry; To feast your senses with the Tragedy Of Roman Messallina, the Play is new, And by Rome's famed Historians confirmed true. We hope you'll not distaste it, nor us blame, Where spots of life are acted to sin's shame. Tell me I pray? can there be no content? To see high towering sins just punishment And Vertues prayse; insatiate lust to e, And chaste Dames stared unto Eternity, Will not this please? if any answer no, ay, let that soul and all the world to know, Your love's the mark we aim at, all our might, Shoots at your love, labours to hit that white. Sola virtus vera nobilitas. Virtue is only true nobility, So speaks our times best Tutor Seneca, And 'tis divinely spoken, like himself. True Philosopher, for what is't to man For to be borne noble, and yet detain Th' ignoble mind of vice, licentious will, Such no way are allied to nobleness. Time's hellbred, base, ignoble noble blood, Runs through his veins, that's only great not good▪ Far better live a private life with thee, Thou sweet companion to Well-minded man. Here's no seducing Pomp, no clouds of vice, Nor fogs of vanity obscures man's sight From the direct to ways directly ill. This seal confirm the sequel of my life To imitate the good that thou presents. Still plodding at your Book, shall we ne'er find You otherwise; Pox of this sad muttering To yourself; hang't up, 'tis a disease to Sweet alacrity, of all true jovial Minds to be abhorred, come.— prithee desist. How scurvily this shows, how ill in you, That Should be framed just of the Time's fashion. That's learning, and valour; or should be so At least; and not in outsides fond delight, Whereon Times Puff-paste costly coxcomb, all His great little wit, and wealth, thinks best bestowed To please his Mistri's Eye; when all man's mind Should bend his course to follow virtues steps. Out upon't; drink me and whore; those are The virtues best, and best accepted 'mong Gallants of this age. theyare gallant sots, Silly and senseless; what's all the delight, That seems so pleasing to the itchy whorer? But like the Itch, scratched raw, 'tis still the sorer 'Twill smart to purpose; make you to find out An obscure grave, cold as the snowy Alps, There, in a hollow circle of the night Lust breeds more cause of terror than delight.
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)
TO write a Tragedy is no such ease As some may thinke, 'mongst whom ther's a disease Still of dislike, censuring what ere is writ With ignorance; onely to be thought a wit. Playes are like severall meates, their strange effects So different prove, some carelesly neglect hat others long for, that which surfets thee, Another sayes tis good, give life to me. What's to be done? the way to please you all Requires a Art, past Magick naturall. Our best endeavours still with Comick fare Have striv'd to please; now all our cost and care, Soares on the wings of labour'd industrie; To feast your sences with the Tragedy Of Roman Messallina, the Play is new, And by Romes fam'd Historians confirm'd true. We hope you'l not distaste it, nor us blame, Where spots of life are acted to sinnes shame. Tell me I pray? can there be no content? To see high towring sinnes just punishment And Vertues prayse; insatiate lust to e, And chast Dames star'd unto Eternitie, Will not this please? if any answer no, I, let that soule and all the world to know, Your loves the marke we ayme at, all our might, Shootes at your love, labours to hit that white. SOla virtus vera nobilitas. Vertue is onely true nobilitie, So speakes our times best Tutor Seneca, And 'tis divinely spoken, like himselfe. True Philosopher, for what is't to man For to be borne noble, and yet detaine Th' ignoble mind of vice, licentious will, Such no way are alide to noblenesse. Times hellbred, base, ignoble noble blood, Runnes through his veines, thas only great not good▪ Farre better live a private life with thee, Thou sweete companion to Well-minded man. Here's no seducing Pompe, no clouds of vice, Nor fogges of vanitie obscures mans sight From the direct to wayes directly ill. This seale confirme the sequell of my life To immitate the good that thou presents. Still plodding at your Book, shall we ne'r find You otherwise; Pox of this sad mutt'ring To your selfe; hang't up, 'tis a disease to Sweet alacritie, of all true joviall Minds to be abhord, come.— Prethe disist. How scurvily this shewes, how ill in you, That Should be fram'd just of the times fashion. Thats learning, and valour; or should be so At least; and not in outsides fond delight, Whereon Times Puffe-paste costly coxcombe, all His great little wit, and wealth, thinkes best bestow'd To please his Mistri's Eye; when all mans minde Should bend his course to follow virtues steps. Out upon't; drinke me and whore; those are The vertues best, and best accepted 'mong Gallants of this age. Th'are gallant sots, Silly and senselesse; what's all the delight, That seemes so pleasing to the itchie whorer? But like the Itch, scratch't raw, 'tis still the sorer 'Twill smart to purpose; make you to find out An obscure grave, cold as the snowy Alpes, There, in a hollow circle of the night Lust breeds more cause of terrour then delight.