Jonson, Ben · published 1601 · first performed or written 1598 (Annals) comedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe · 538 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
Oh he writes not in that height of style. No: we'll come a step or two lower then. From Catadupa and the banks of Nile, Where only breeds your monstrous Crocodile: Now are we purposed for to fetch our style. Oh too far fetched for him still master Doctor: ay, say you so, let's entreat a sight of his vain then? signor, master Doctor desires to see a sight of your vain, nay you must not deny him. What; all this verse, body of me he carries a whole realm; a common wealth of paper in his hose, let's see some of his subjects. Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty, runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal, Returning thee the tribute of my duty: Which here my youth, my plaints, my love reveal. Good? is this your own invention? No sir; I translated that out of a book, called Delia. Oh but I would see some of your own, some of your own. Sir; here's the beginning of a sonnet I made to my mistress. That that: who? to Maddona Hesperida is she your mistress. It pleaseth him to call her so, sir. In Summer time when Phoebus' golden rays. You translated this too? did you not? No this is invention; he found it in a ballad. faith sir; I had most of the conceit of it out of a ballad indeed. Conceit, fetch me a couple of torches, sirrah, I may see the conceit: quickly? its very dark? Call you this poetry? Poetry? nay then call blasphemy, religion; Call Devils, Angels; and Sin, piety: Let all things be preposterously transchangd. Why how now son? what? are you startled now? Hath the breeze pricked you? ha? go to; you see, How abjectly your Poetry is ranked, in general opinion. Opinion, O God let gross opinion sink & be damned As deep as Barathrum, If it may stand with your most wished content, I can refel opinion and approve, The state of poesy, such as it is, Blessed, aeternal, and most true divine: Indeed if you will lock on Poesy, As she appears in many, poor and lame, Patched up in remnants and old worn rags, Half starved for want of her peculiar food: Sacred invention, than I must confirm, Both your conceit and censure of her merit, But view her in her glorious ornaments, Attired in the majesty of art, Set high in spirit with the precious taste, Of sweet philosophy, and which is most, Crowned with the rich traditions of a soul, That hates to have her dignity profaned, With any relish of an earthly thought: Oh them how proud a presence doth she bear. Then is she like herself fit to be seen, Of none but grave and consecrated eyes: Nor is it any blemish to her fame. That such lean▪ ignorant, and blasted wits, Such brainless gulls, should utter their stolen wares With such aplauses in our vulgar ears: Or that their slubbered lines have currant pass, From the fat judgements of the multitude, But that this barren and infected age, Should set no difference twixt these empty spirits, And a true Poet: than which reverend name, Nothing can more adorn humanity.
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)
Oh he writes not in that height of stile. No: weele come a steppe or two lower then. From Catadupa and the bankes of Nile, Where onely breedes your monstrous Crocodile: Now are we purposd for to fetch our stile. Oh too farre fetcht for him still maister Doctor: I, say you so, lets intreat a sight of his vaine then? Signior, maister Doctor desires to see a sight of your vaine, nay you must not denie him. What; al this verse, body of me he carries a whole realme; a common wealth of paper in his hose, lets see some of his subects. Vnto the boundlesse ocean of thy bewtie, Rnnes this poore riuer, chargd with streames of zeale, Returning thee the tribute of my dutie: Which here my youth, my plaints, my loue reuele. Good? is this your owne inuention▪ No sir▪ I translated that ot of a booke, called Delia. Oh but I wold see some of your owne, some of your owne. Sir; heres the beginning of a sonnet I made to my mistresse. That that: who? to Madda Hesperida is she your mistresse. It pleaseth him to call her so, sir. In Sommer time when Phaebus golden rayes. You translated this too? did you not? No this is inuention; he found it in a ballad. Fayth sir▪ I had most of the conceite of it of a ballad ideede. Conceite, fetch me a couple of torches, sirha, I may see the conceite: quickly? its very darke? Call you this poetry? Poetry? nay then call blasphemie, religion; Call Diuels, Angels; and Sinne, pietie: Let all things be preposterously transchangd. Why how now sonne? what? are you startled now? Hath the brize prickt you? ha? go to; you see, How abiectly your Poetry is ranckt, in generall opinion. Opinion, O God let grosse opiniō sinck & be damnd As deepe as Barathrum, If it may stand with your most wisht content, I can refell opinion and approue, The state of poeie, such as it is, Blessed, aeternall, and most true deuine: Indeede if you will locke on Poie, As she appeares in many, poore and lame, Patcht vp in remnants nd olde worne ragges, Halfe starud for want of her peculir foode: Sacred inuention, then I must conferme, Both your conceite and censure of her merrite, But view her in her glorious ornaments, Attired in the maiestie of arte, Set high in spirite vvith the precious taste, Of sweete philosophie, and vvhich is most, Crownd vvith the rich traditions of a soule, That hates to haue her dignitie prophand, With any relish of an earthly thought: Oh them how proud a presence doth she beare. Then is she like her selfe fit to be seene, Of none but graue and consecrated eyes: Nor is it any blemish to her fame. That such leane▪ ignorant, and blasted wits, Such brainlesse guls, should vtter their stolne wares With such aplauses in our vulgar eares: Or that their slubberd lines haue currant passe, From the fat iudgements of the multitude, But that this barren and infected age, Should set no difference twixt these empty spirits, And a true Poet: then which reuerend name, Nothing can more adorne humanitie.