Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
Blessed is that government where no art thrives, Vox populi, vex Dei: The vulgars' voice, it is the voice of God. Yet Tully saith, Non est consilium in vulgo, non ratio, non discrimen, non differentia: The vulgar have no learning, wit, nor sense. Themistocles having spent all his time In study of Philosophy and arts, And noting well the vanity of them, Wished with repentance, for his folly past, Some would teach him th'art of oblivion, How to forget the arts that he had learned. And Cicero, whom we alleged before, (As saith Valerius) stepping into old age, Despised learning, loathed eloquence. Naso, that could speak nothing but pure verse, And had more wit than words to utter it, And words as choice as ever Poet had, Cried and exclaimed in bitter agony, When knowledge had corrupted his chaste mind, Discite qui sapitis non haec qua scimus inertes, Sed trepidas acies, & fera bella sequi. You that be wise, and ever mean to thrive, O study not these toys we sluggards use, But follow arms, and wait on barbarous wars. Young men, young boys, beware of Schoolmasters, They will infect you, mar you, blear your eyes: They seek to lay the curse of God on you, Namely confusion of languages, Wherewith those that the tower of Babel built, Accursed were in the worlds infancy. Latin, it was the speech of Infidels. Logic hath nought to say in a true cause. Philosophy is curiosity: And Socrates was therefore put to death, Only for he was a Philosopher: Abhor, contemn, despise, these damned snares. Out upon it, who would be a Scholar? not I, I promise you: my mind always gave me, this learning was such a filthy thing, which made me hate it so as I did: when I should have been at school, construing Batte, mi fili, mi fili, mi bat, I was close under a hedge, or under a barn wall, playing at span Counter, or Jack in a box: my master beat me, my father beat me, my mother gave me bread and butter, ye all this would not make me a squitter-book. It was my destiny, I thank her as a most courteous goddess, that she hath not cast me away upon gibridge. O, in what a mighty vain am I now against hornbooks! Here before all this company, I profess myself on open enemy to Ink and paper. I'll make it good upon the Accidence body, that In speech is the devils Pater noster: Nouns and Pronouns, I pronounce you as traitors to boys' buttocks, Syntaxis and Prosodia, you are tormenters of wit, & good for nothing but to get a schoolmaster two pence a week. Hang copies, fly out phrase books, let pens be turned to picktooths: bowls, cards & dice, you are the true liberal sciences, I'll ne'er be goose-quill, gentlemen, while I live.
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)
Blest is that gouernment where no arte thriues, Vox populi, vex Dei: The vulgars voice, it is the voice of God. Yet Tully saith, Non est consilium in vulgo, non ratio, non discrimen, non differentia: The vulgar haue no learning, wit, nor sence. The mistocles hauing spent all his time In studie of Philosophie and artes, And noting well the vanitie of them, Wisht with repentance, for his follie past, Some would teach him th'arte of obliuion, How to forget the arts that he had learnd. And Cicero, whom we alleadg'd before, (As saith Valerius) stepping into old age, Despised learning, lothed eloquence. Naso, that could speake nothing but pure verse, And had more wit then words to vtter it, And words as choise as euer Poet had, Cride and exclaimde in bitter agonie, When knowledge had corrupted his chaste mind, Discite qui sapitis non haec qua scimus inertes, Sed trepidas acies, & fera bella sequi. You that be wise, and euer meane to thriue, O studie not these toyes we sluggards vse, But follow armes, and waite on barbarous warres. Young men, yong boyes, beware of Schoolemasters, They will infect you, marre you, bleare your eyes: They seeke to lay the curse of God on you, Namely confusion of languages, Wherewith those that the towre of Babel built, Accursed were in the worldes infancie. Latin, it was the speech of Infidels. Logique hath nought to say in a true cause. Philosophie is curiositie: And Socrates was therefore put to death, Onely for he was a Philosopher: Abhorre, contemne, despise, these damned snares. Out vpon it, who would be a Scholler? not I, I promise you: my minde alwayes gaue me, this learning was such a filthy thing, which made me hate it so as I did: when I should haue beene at schoole, construing Batte, mi fili, mi fili, mi Batte, I was close vnder a hedge, or vnder a barne wall, playing at spanne Counter, or Iacke in a boxe: my master beat me, my father beat me, my mother gaue me bread and butter, yee all this would not make me a squitter-booke. It was my destinie, I thanke her as a most courteous goddesse, that shee hath not cast me away vpon gibridge. O, in what a mightie vaine am I now against Horne-bookes! Here before all this companie, I professe my selfe on open enemy to Inke and paper. Ile make it good vpon the Accidence body, that In speech is the diuels Pater noster: Nownes and Pronounes, I pronounce you as traitors to boyes buttockes, Syntaxis and Prosodia, you are tormenters of wit, & good for nothing but to get a schoolemaster two pence a weeke. Hang copies, flye out phrase books, let pennes be turnd to picktooths: bowles, cards & dice, you are the true liberalsciēces, Ile ne're be Goosequil, gentlemē, while I liue.