Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1601 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Chapel (second) T8 Captains, gallants and cheats typicality 0.72 · 470 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T8: captain, master, money, gentleman, little, lieutenant, rogue, pray, minos, honest.
Strength of my Country, whilst I bring to view Such as are miscalled Captains, and wrong you, And your high names; I do desire, that thence, Be nor put on you, nor you take offence: I swear by your true friend, my Muse, I love Your great profession, which I once did prove; And did not shame it with my actions, then, No more than I dare, now, do with my pen. He that not trusts me, having vowed thus much, But's angry for the Captain, still, is such. Now, for the Players, it is true, I taxed 'em, And yet, but some; and those so sparingly, As all the rest might have sat still, unquestioned, Had they but had the wit, or conscience, To think well of themselves. But, impotent they Thought each man's vice belonged to their whole tribe: And much good do't 'em. What th' have done 'gainst me, I am not moved with. If it gave 'em meat, Or got 'em clothes. 'Tis well. That was their end. Only amongst them, I am sorry for Some better natures, by the rest so drawn, To run in that vile line. And is this all? Will you not answer then the libels? No.. Nor the untrussers? Neither. You're undone then. With whom? The world. The bawd: It will be taken To be stupidity, or tameness in you. But, they that have incensed me, can in soul Acquit me of that guilt. They know, I dare To spurn, or baffle 'em; or squirt their eyes With ink, or urine: or I could do worse, Armed with ARCHILOCHUS fury, write iambics, Should make the desperate lashers hang themselves. Rhyme 'em to death, as they do Irish rats In drumming tunes. Or, living, I could stamp Their foreheads with those deep, and public brands That the whole company of Barber-Surgeons Should not take off, with all their art, and plasters. And these my prints should last, still to be read In their pale fronts: when, what they write 'gainst me, Shall like a figure, drawn in water, fleet, And the poor wretched papers be employed To clothe tobacco, or some cheaper drug. This I could do, and make them infamous. But, to what end? when their own deeds have marked 'em, And, that I know, within his guilty breast Each slanderer bears a whip, that shall torment him, Worse, than a million of these temporal plagues: Which to pursue, were but a feminine humour, And, far beneath the dignity of a man. 'Tis true: for to revenge their injuries, Were to confess you felt 'em. Let 'em go, And use the treasure of the fool, their tongues, Who makes his gain, by speaking worst, of best. O, but they lay particular imputations— As what? That all your writing, is mere railing.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 2420–2482 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 56 of 57 in this edition
Length
470 words · 647 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T8 — Captains, gallants and cheatscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.725 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T11 · seed 44: T14 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Strength of my Countrey, whilst I bring to view Such as are misse-call'd Captaines, and wrong you, And your high names; I doe desire, that thence, Be nor put on you, nor you take offence: I sweare by your true friend, my Muse, I loue Your great profession, which I once did proue; And did not shame it with my actions, then, No more then I dare, now, doe with my pen. He that not trusts me, hauing vow'd thus much, But's angry for the Captaine, still▪ is such. Now, for the Players, it is true, I tax'd 'hem, And yet, but some; and those so sparingly, As all the rest might haue sate still, vnquestion'd, Had they but had the wit, or conscience, To thinke well of themselues. But, impotent they Thought each mans vice belong'd to their whole tribe: And much good doo't 'hem. What th' haue done 'gainst me, I am not mou'd with. If it gaue 'hem meat, Or got 'hem clothes. 'Tis well. That was their end. Onely amongst them, I am sorry for Some better natures, by the rest so drawne, To run in that vile line. And is this all? Will you not answere then the libells? No. Nor the vntrussers? Neither. Y'are vndone then. With whom? The world. The baud It wil be taken To be stupidity, or tamenesse in you. But, they that haue incens'd me, can in soule Acquit me of that guilt. They know, I dare To spurne, or bafull 'hem; or squirt their eyes With inke, or vrine: or I could doe worse, Arm'd with ARCHILOCHVS fury, write Iambicks, Should make the desperate lashers hang themselues. Rime 'hem to death, as they doe Irish rats In drumming tunes. Or, liuing, I could stampe Their foreheads with those deepe, and publike brands That the whole company of Barber-Surgeons Should not take off, with all their art, and playsters. And these my prints should last, still to be read In their pale fronts: when, what they write 'gainst me, Shall like a figure, drawne in water, fleete, And the poore wretched papers be employed To cloth tabacco, or some cheaper drug. This I could doe, and make them infamous. But, to what end? when their owne deedes haue mark'd 'hem, And, that I know, within his guilty brest Each slanderer beares a whip, that shall torment him, Worse, then a million of these temporall plagues: Which to pursue, were but a feminine humour, And, farre beneath the dignitie of a man. 'Tis true: for to reuenge their iniuries, Were to confesse you felt 'hem. Let 'hem goe, And vse the treasure of the foole, their tongues, Who makes his gayne, by speaking worst, of best. O, but they lay particular imputations— As what? That all your writing, is meere rayling.