Glapthorne, Henry · published 1640 · first performed or written 1638 [1636-1638; revised 1639] (Annals) not in BritDrama · Phoenix/Cockpit T35 Fools, wit and railing typicality 0.79 · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
Why cosen I had thought. thyself an errant idiot, that's the fittest Thought for thy brain more dull than a fat Burghers, Or reverend country justices, whose wit Lies in his spruce clerk's standish, thou wert begot Surely i'th' wane o'th' Moon, when natures tools Were at lame Vulcan's forge a sharpening, thou art so lumpish. He has already spoilt His eyes with prying on Geneva prints, And small dutch Characters: his watching makes him Look like a grandchild of old Errapater's, Some lean Astronomer, who to get ten shillings, For that's a large price for an Almanac, Has wasted himself to the bigness of his Jacob's staff, Which is so limber, 't cannot stand to take height of Venus rising. He says truth: besides your study has attained already, Learning enough to inform your mind the knowledge Of arts fit for a gentleman, wert not better For you my sprightful senior to advance Your beaver with a hatband of the last Edition in the Court, among the noblest Youths of our nation, than to walk like Faustus, Or some high German conjurer, in a cap Fit for a Costermonger, to wear your pearl Or cut work, band then this small slip of linen That's proper only for Tom Thum: or some of queen Mab's gentlemen-ushers. This Cassock were a pretty garment for a fortuneteller. And this cloak of tinder comely for a ballad-seller, Life sir, you are borne here to an ample fortune, Your father absent knows not how you've altered Your disposition: I must reclaim it, Thou shalt with me and court the beauteous Clare Reserved for thee, a purpose i'th' mean time, Our chief companions, shall be wits more pure, Than your quick sophisters, or sly logicians, we'll talk of the bright beauties of the age, Girls whose each look deserves to be a theme For all the nimble poets, two days practise In our brave arts will teach thee to forget Philosophy as fruitless and abjure All other Ethics, but what's used 'mongst us, as most erroneous. Well You shall persuade me, I'll be an errant ass, or any thing For thy sake coz, but shall we have such wenches As are at Cambridge, handsome as peg Larkin. O far before her, cosen thou shalt read Aretius' Politics; and Ovid's Art, Shall be new read, thee and we will refine Thy Academic wit with bowls of wine. Tristram shall toth' College and sell my books immediately. Speak like the son of Phoebus and my cosen. My studious master. Sell thy Dictionary. I'll not keep a prayer book. They are out of fashion. Nor a Calendar, to look the age o'th' Moon in, Trist. be sure You burn Green's groats worth of wit; I scorn to keep The name of wit about me. 'tis confessed sir, but for the numerous Rheims of paper, which Are piled up in your study, give them me, I have a brother in law i'th' town's a cook, I'll give them him to put under his bake meats.
nodes 136–196 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 3 of 31 in this edition
Length
506 words · 703 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T35 — Fools, wit and railingcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.794 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
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)
Why cosen I had thought. Thy selfe an errant ideot, that's the fittest Thought for thy braine more dull then a fat Burgers, Or reverend countrey justices, whose wit Lies in his spruce clearkes standish, thou wert begot Surely ith' wane oth' Moone, when natures tooles Were at lame Vulcans forge a sharpening, thou art so lumpish. He has already spoyld His eyes with prying on Geneva prints, And small dutch Characters: his watching makes him Looke like a grand-child of old Errapaters, Some leane Astronomer, who to get ten shillings, For that's a large price for an Almanacke, Has wasted himselfe to the bignesse of his Iaccobs staffe, Which is so limber, 't cannot stand to take height of Venus rising. He sayes truth: besides your study has attain'd already, Learning enough to informe your minde the knowledge Of arts fit for a gentleman, wert not better For you my sprightfull senior to advance Your bever with a hatband of the last Edition in the Court, among the noblest Youthes of our nation, then to walke like Faustus, Or some high German conjurer, in a cap Fit for a Coster-monger, to weare your purle Or cut worke, band then this small ip of linning That's proper only for Tom Thum: or some of queen Mabs gentlemen-ushers. This Cassocke were a pretty garment for a fortuneteller. And this cloake of tinder comely for a ballad-seller, Life sir, you are borne here to an ample fortune, Your father absent knowes not how you've altered Your disposition: I must reclayme it, Thou shalt with me and court the beauteous Clare Reserv'd for thee, a purpose ith' meane time, Our chiefe companions, shall be wits more pure, Then your quicke sophisters, or lie logicians, Wee'l talke of the bright beauties of the age, Girles whose each looke deserves to be a theme For all the nimble poets, two dayes practise In our brave arts will teach thee to forget Philosophy as fruitlesse and abjure All other Ethicks, but what's usd mongst us, as most erronious▪ Well You shall perswade me, Ile be an errant asse, or any thing For thy sake coz, but shall we have such wenches As are at Cambridge, hansome as peg Larkin. O farre before her, cosen thou shalt read Areius Politicks; and Ovds Art, Shall be new read, thee and wee will refine Thy Academicke wit with bowles of wine. Tristram shall toth' Colledge and sell my bookes immediately. Speake like the son of Phoebus and my cosen. My studious master. Sell thy Dictionary. Ile not keepe a prayer booke. They are out of fashion. Nor a Calender, to looke the age oth' Moone in, Trist. be sure You burne Geens groats worth of wit; I scorne to keepe The name of wit about me. Tis confest sir, but for the numerous Rhemes of paper, which Are pil'd up in your study, give them mee, I have a brother in law ith' towne's a cooke, Ile give them him to put under his bake meates.