Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
How say you, my masters, do you not laugh at him for a Coxcomb? Why, he hath made a Prologue longer than his Play: nay, 'tis no Play neither, but a show. I'll be sworn, the fig of Roland's Godson, is a Giant in comparison of it. What can be made of Summer's last will & Testament? Such another thing, as Cyllian of Brainford's will, where she bequeathed a score of farts amongst her friends. Forsooth, because the plague reigns in most places in this latter end of summer, Summer must come in sick: he must call his officers to account, yield his throne to Autumn, make Winter his Executor, with tittle-tattle Tom boy: God give you good night in Watling street. I care not what I say now: for I play no more than you hear; & some of that you heard to (by your leave) was extempore. He were as good have let me had the best part: for I'll be revenged on him to the uttermost, in this person of Will Summer, which I have put on to play the Prologue, and mean not to put off, till the play be done. I'll sit as a Chorus, and flout the Actors and him at the end of every Scene: I know they will not interrupt me, for fear of marring of all: but look to your cues, my masters; for I intend to play the knave in cue, and put you besides all your parts, if you take not the better heed. Actors, you Rogues, come away, clear your throats, blow your noses, and wipe your mouths ere you enter, that you may take no occasion to spit or to cough, when you are non plus. And this I bar over and beside, That none of you stroke your beards, to make action, play with your codpiece points, or stand fumbling on your button, when you know not how to bestow your fingers. Serve God, and act cleanly; a fit of mirth, and an old song first, if you will. Fair Summer droops, droop men and beasts therefore: So fair a summer look for never more. All good things vanish, less than in a day, Peace, plenty, pleasure suddenly decay. Go not yet away bright soul of the sad year. The earth is hell, when thou leanest to appear. What, shall those flowers that decked thy garland erst, Upon thy grave be wastefully dispersed? O trees, consume your sap in sorrows source. Streams, turn to tears your tributary course. Go not yet hence, bright soul of the sad year. The earth is hell, when thou leav'st to appear.
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)
How say you, my masters, doe you not laugh at him for a Coxcombe? Why, he hath made a Prologue longer then his Play: nay, 'tis no Play neyther, but a shewe. Ile be sworne, the sigge of Rowlands God-sonne, is a Gyant in comparison of it. What can be made of Summers last will & Testament? Such another thing, as Cyllian of Braynfords will, where shee bequeathed a score of farts amongst her friends. Forsooth, because the plague raignes in most places in this latter end of summer, Summer must come in sicke: he must call his officers to account, yeeld his throne to Autumne, make Winter his Executour, with tittle tattle Tom boy: God giue you good night in Watling street. I care not what I say now: for I play no more then you heare; & some of that you heard to (by your leaue) was extempore. He were as good haue let me had the best part: for Ile be reueng'd on him to the vttermost, in this person of Will Summer, which I haue put on to play the Prologue, and meane not to put off, till the play be done. Ile sit as a Chorus, and flowte the Actors and him at the end of euery Sceane: I know they will not interrupt me, for feare of marring of all: but looke to your cues, my masters; for I intend to play the knaue in cue, and put you besides all your parts, if you take not the better heede. Actors, you Rogues, come away, cleare your throats, blowe your noses, and wype your mouthes e're you enter, that you may take no occasion to spit or to cough, when you are non plus. And this I barre ouer and besides, That none of you stroake your beardes, to make action, play with your cod-piece poynts, or stād fumbling on your buttom, when you know not how to bestow your fingers. Serue God, and act cleanly; a fit of mirth, and an old song first, if you will. Fayre Summer droops, droope men and beasts therefore: So fayre a summer looke for neuer more. All good things vanish, lesse then in a day, Peace, plenty, pleasure sodainely decay. Goe not yet away bright soule of the sadyeare. The earth is hell, when thou lean'st to appeare. What, shall those flowres that deckt thy garland erst, Vpon thy graue be wastfully disperst? O trees, consume your sap in sorrowes sourse. Streames, turne to teares your tributary course. Goe not yet hence, bright soule of the sadyeare. The earth is hell, when thou leau'st to appeare.