Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1601 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Chapel (second) T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.75 · 465 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
Ha! If all the salt in the old comedy Should be so censured, or the sharper wit Of the bold satire, termed scolding rage, What age could then compare with those, for buffoons? What should be said of ARISTOPHANES? PERSIUS? or JUVENAL? whose names we now So glorify in schools, at least pretend it. Ha' they no other? Yes: they say you are slow, And scarce bring forth a play a year. 'Tis true. I would, they could not say that I did that, There's all the joy that I take i' their trade, Unless such Scribes as they might be proscribed Th' abused theatres. They would think it strange, now, A man should take but coltsfoot, for one day, And, between whiles, spit out a better poem Than e'er the master of art, or giver of wit, Their belly made. Yet, this is possible, If a free mind had but the patience, To think so much, together, and so vile. But, that these base, and beggarly conceits Should carry it, by the multitude of voices, Against the most abstracted work, opposed To the stuffed nostrils of the drunken rout! O, this would make a learned, and liberal soul, To rive his stained quill, up to the back, And damn his long-watched labours to the fire; Things, that were borne, when none but the still night, And his dumb candle saw his pinching throes: Were not his own free merit a more crown Unto his travails, than their reeling claps. This 'tis, that strikes me silent, seals my lips, And apts me, rather to sleep out my time, Then I would waste it in contemned strifes, With these vile Ibides, these unclean birds, That make their mouths their clysters, and still purge From their hot entrails. But, I leave the monsters To their own fate. And, since the Comic MUSE Hath proved so ominous to me, I will try If Tragedy have a more kind aspect. Her favours in my next I will pursue, Where, if I prove the pleasure but of one, So he judicious be; He shall b' alone A Theatre unto me: Once, I'll say, To strike the ear of time, in those fresh strains, As shall, beside the cunning of their ground, Give cause to some of wonder, some despite, And unto more, despair, to imitate their sound. ay, that spend half my nights, and all my days, Here in a cell, to get a dark, pale face, To come forth worth the ivy, or the bays, And in this age can hope no other grace— Leave me. There's something come into my thought, That must, and shall be sung, high, and aloof, Safe from the wolves black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof. I reverence these raptures, and obey 'em.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 2483–2539 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 57 of 57 in this edition
Length
465 words · 641 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T9 — Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playerscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.746 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
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)
Ha! If all the salt in the old comoedy Should be so censur'd, or the sharper wit Of the bold satyre, termed scolding rage, What age could then compare with those, for buffos? VVhat should be sayd of ARISTOPHANES? PERSIVS? or IUVENAL? whose names we now So glorifie in schooles, at least pretend it. Ha' they no other? Yes: they say you are slow, And scarse bring forth a play a yeere. 'Tis true. I would, they could not say that I did that, There's all the ioy that I take i' their trade, Vnlesse such Scribes as they might be proscrib'd Th' abused theaters. They would thinke it strange, now, A man should take but colts-foote, for one day, And, betweene whiles, spit out a better poeme Then e're the master of art, or giuer of wit, Their belly made. Yet, this is possible, If a free minde had but the patience, To thinke so much, together, and so vile. But, that these base, and beggerly conceipts Should carry it, by the multitude of voices, Against the most abstracted worke, oppos'd To the stuff'd nostrills of the drunken rout! O, this would make a learn'd, and liberall soule, To riue his stayned quill, vp to the back, And damne his long-watch'd labours to the fire; Things, that were borne, when none but the still night, And his dumbe candle saw his pinching throes: Were not his owne free merit a more crowne Vnto his trauailes, then their reeling claps. This 'tis, that strikes me silent, seales my lips, And apts me, rather to sleepe out my time, Then I would waste it in contemned strifes, With these vile Ibides, these vncleane birds, That make their mouthes their clysters, and still purge From their hot entrailes. But, I leaue the monsters To their owne fate. And, since the Comick MVSE Hath prou'd so ominous to me, I will trie If Tragoedie haue a more kind aspect. Her fauours in my next I will pursue, Where, if I proue the pleasure but of one, So he iudicious be; He shall b' alone A Theatre vnto me: Once, I'le say, To strike the eare of time, in those fresh straines, As shall, beside the cunning of their ground, Giue cause to some of wonder, some despight, And vnto more, despaire, to imitate their sound. I, that spend halfe my nights, and all my dayes, Here in a cell, to get a darke, pale face, To come forth worth the iuy, or the bayes, And in this age can hope no other grace— Leaue me. There's something come into my thought, That must, and shall be sung, high, and aloofe, Safe from the wolues black iaw, and the dull asses hoofe. I reuerence these raptures, and obey 'hem.