Jonson, Ben · published 1602 · first performed or written 1601 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Chapel (second) · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 497 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
A Scholar Sir? I shall be covetous of your fair knowledge. Gramercy good Horace; Nay, we are new turned Poet too, which is more; and a Satirist too, which is more than that: I writ just in thy vain, I. I am for your Odes or your Sermons, or any thing indeed; we are a Gentleman beside: our name is Rufus Laberius Crispinus; we are a pretty Stoic too. To the proportion of your beard, I think it sir. By Phoebus, here's a most neat fine street; is't not? I protest to thee, I am enamoured of this street now, more than of half the streets of Rome, again; 'tis so polite, and terse: there's the front of a Building now. I study Architecture too: if ever I should build, I'd have a house just of that Prospective. Doubtless, this Gallants tongue has a good turn, when he sleeps. I do make verses, when I come in such a street as this: O your Citty-Ladies, you shall ha'hem sit in every shop like the Muses,— offering you the Castalian Dews, and the Thespian Liquors, to as many as have but the sweet grace and Audacity to— sip of their lips. Did you never hear any of my verses? No Sir; but I am in some fear, I must, now. I'll tell thee some (if I can but recover 'em) I composed even now of a velvet cap, I fawa jewellers wife wear; who indeed was a jewel herself: I prefer that kind of Tire now; What's thy opinion Horace? With your silver Bodkin, it does well, Sir. I cannot tell, but it stirs me more than all your Court Curls, or your Spangles, or your Tricks; I affect not these high Gable ends, these Tuscan tops, nor your Coronets, nor your Arches, nor your Pyramids; give me a fine sweet— little velvet Cap, with a Bodkin; as you say: and a Mushroom, for all your other Ornatures. Is't not possible to make an escape from him? I have remitted my verses all this while, I think I haforgot 'hem. Here's he, could wish you had else. Pray Ioue, I can entreat 'em of my Memory. You put your Memory to too much trouble, Sir. No, sweet Horace, we must not ha' thee think so. I cry you mercy; then, they are my Ears That must be tortured; well, you must have patience, Ears. Pray thee Horace, observe. Yes Sir: your Satin sleeve begins to fret at the Rug that is underneath it, I do observe; And your ample Velvet hose are not without evident stains of a hot disposition Naturally. O,— I'll die them into another Colour, at pleasure: how many yards of Velvet dost thou think they contain? 'sheart! I have put him now in a fresh way To vex me more: Faith Sir, your Mercer's book Will tell you with more patience, than I can; For I am crossed, and so's not that, I think.
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)
A Scholer Sir? I ſhall be couetous of your faire knowledge. Gramercy good Horace; Nay, we are newe turn'd Poet too, which is more; and a Satyriſt too, which is more then that: I write iuſt in thy vaine, I. I am for your Odes or your Sermons, or any thing indeede; wee are a Gentleman beſides: our name is Rufus Laberius Crispinus; we are a pretty Stoicke too. To the proportion of your beard, I thinke it ſir. By Phoebus, here's a moſt neate fine ſtreete; is't not? I proteſt to thee, I am enamord of this ſtreete now, more then of halfe the ſtreetes of Rome, againe; tis ſo polite, and terſe: Ther's the front of a Building now. I ſtudy Architecture too: if euer I ſhould build, I'de haue a houſe iuſt of that Proſpectiue. Doubtleſſe, this Gallants tongue has a good turne, when he ſleepes. I doe make verſes, when I come in ſuch a ſtreete as this: O your Citty-Ladies, you ſhall ha'hem ſit in euery ſhop like the Muſes,— offring you the Caſtalian Deawes, and the Theſpian Liquors, to as many as haue but the ſweete grace and Audacitie to— ſip of their lips. Did you neuer heare any of my verſes? No Sir; but I am in ſome feare, I muſt, now. Ile tell thee ſome (if I can but recouer 'hem) I compoſ'd e'en now of a veluet cap, I fawa Iewellers wife wear; who indeede was a Iewell her ſelfe: I prefer that kind of Tire now; What's thy opinion Horace? With your ſiluer Bodkin, it does well, Sir. I cannot tell, but it ſtirs me more then all your Court Curles, or your Spangles, or your Trickes; I affect not theſe high Gable ends, theſe Tuſcan tops, nor your Coronets, nor your Arches, nor your Pyramid's; giue me a fine ſweete— little veluet Cap, with a Bodkin; as you ſay: and a Muſhrome, for all your other Ornatures. Iſt not poſſible to make an eſcape from him? I haue remitted my verſes all this while, I thinke I haforgot 'hem. Heres hee, could wiſh you had elſe. Pray Ioue, I can intreat 'hem of my Memory. You put your Memory to too much trouble, Sir. No, ſweete Horace, we muſt not ha' thee thinke ſo. I cry you mercy; then, they are my Eares That muſt be tortur'd; well, you muſt haue patience, Eares. Pray thee Horace, obſerue. Yes Sir: your Sattin ſleeue begins to fret at the Rug that is vnderneath it, I doe obſerue; And your ample Veluet hoſe are not without euident ſtaines of a hot diſpoſition Naturally. O,— Ile dye them into another Colour, at pleaſure: how many yards of Veluet doſt thou thinke they conteyne? 'Hart! I haue put him now in a freſh way To vex me more: Faith Sir, your Mercers booke Will tell you with more patience, then I can; For I am croſt, and ſo's not that, I thinke.