Satiromastix, or The Untrussing of the Humorous Poet · chunk 32 of 44
Dekker, Thomas · published 1602 · first performed or written 1601 (Annals) comedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men and Children of Paul's (second) unassigned nearest T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe · 496 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
By my troth sweet Ladies, it's Cake and pudding to me, to see his face make faces, when he reads his Songs and Sonnets. I'll face some of you for this, when you shall not budge. It's the stinkingst dung-farmer— foh upon him. Foh? oundes you make him vrse than old herring: foh? by Sesu I think he's as tidy, and as tall a Poet as ever drew out a long verse. The best verse that ever I knew him hack out, was his white neck-verse: noble Ap Rees thou wouldst scorn to lay thy lips to his commendations, and thou smelledst him out as I do, he calls thee the burning Knight of the Salamander. Right, Peter is my Salamander; what of him? but Peter is never burnt: how now? so, go too now. And says because thou clip'st the kings English. 'ounds mee? that's treason: clip? horrible treasons, Sesu hold my hands; clip? he baits mousetraps for my life. Right little twinkler, right: he says because thou speak'st no better, thou canst not keep a good tongue in thy head. By God 'tis the best tongue, I can buy for love or money. He shoots at thee too Adam Bell, and his arrows sticks here; he calls thee baldpate. 'ounds make him prove these intolerabilities. And asks who shall carry the vinegar-bottle: & then he rhymes to't, and says Prickshaft: nay Miniver he crumples thy Cap too; and— Come Tucca, come, no more; the man's well known, thou needst not paint him, whom does he not wrong? Mary himself, the ugly Pope Boniface, pardons himself, and therefore my judgement is, that presently he be had from hence, to his place of execution, and there be Stabbed, Stabbed, Stabbed. Oh gentlemen, I am slain, oh slave art hired to murder me, to murder me, to murder me? Oh God! 'ounds Captain you have put all Poetry to the dint of sword, blow wind about him: Ladies for our lords sake you that have smocks, tear off pieces, to shoot through his oundes: Is he dead and buried is he? pull his nose, pinch, rub, rub, rub, rub. If he be not dead, look here; I ha' the Stab and pippin for him: if I had killed him, I could ha' pleased the great fool with an Apple. How now? be well good Horace, here's no wound; You're slain by your own fears; how dost thou man? Come, put thy heart into his place again; Thy outside's neither pierced, nor Inside slain. I am glad M. Horace, to see you walking. Gentlemen, I am black and blewe the breadth of a groat. Breadth of a groat? there's a teston, hide thy infirmities, my scurvy Lazarus, do, hide it, lest it prove a scab in time: hang thee desperation, hang thee, thou know'st I cannot be sharp set against thee: look, feel (my light-uptailes all) feel my weapon. O most pitiful as blunt as my great thumb.
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)
By my troth sweet Ladies, it's Cake and pudding to me, to see his face make faces, when hee reades his Songs and Sonnets. Ile face some of you for this, when you shall not budge. Its the stinckingst dung-farmer—foh vpon him. Foh? oundes you make him vrse than olde herring: foh? by Sesu I thinke he's as tidy, and as tall a Poet as euer drew out a long verse. The best verse that euer I knew him hacke out, was his white necke-verse: noble Ap Rees thou wouldst scorne to laye thy lippes to his commendations, and thou smeldst him out as I doe, hee calles thee the burning Knight of the Salamander. Right, Peter is my Salamander; what of him? but Peter is neuer burnt: howe now? so, goe too now. And sayes because thou Clipst the Kinges English. Oundes mee that's treason: clip? horribl treasons, Seu holde my handes; clip? he baites mouse-trappes for my life. Right little Twinckler, right: hee sayes because thou speak'st no better, thou canst not keepe a good tongue in thy head. By God tis the best tongue, I can buy for loue or money. He shootes at thee too Adam Bell, and his arrowes stickes heere; he calles thee bald-pate. Oundes make him prooue these intollerabilities. And askes who shall carry the vineger-bottle▪ & then he rimes too't, and sayes Prickshaft: nay Miniuer hee cromplesthy Cap too; and— Come Tucca, come, no more; the man's wel knowne, thou needst not paint him, whom does he not wrong? Mary himselfe, the vglie Poe Boniface, pardons himselfe, and terefore my indgement is, that presently he bee had from hence, to his place of execution, and there bee Stab'd, Stab'd, Stab'd. Oh gentlemen, I am slaine, oh sue art hyt'd to murder me, to murder me, to murder me? Oh God! Ounds Capten you haue put all Poetrie to the dint of sword, blow winde about him: Ladies for our Lordes sake you that haue smocks, teare off peeces▪ to shoote through his oundes: Is he dead and buried is he? pull his nose, pinch, rub, rub, rub, rub. If he be not dead, looke heere; I ha the Stab and pippin for him: if I had kil'd him, I could ha pleas'd the great foole with an Apple. How now? be well good Horace, heer's no wound; Y'are slaine by your owne feares; how dost thou man? Come, put thy▪ he at into h place againe; Thy out-side's neither peir'st, nor In-side laine. I am glad M. Horace, to see you walking. Gentlemen, I am blacke and blewe the breadth of a groate. Breadth of a groate? there's a teston, hide thy infirmities, my scuruy Lazaru, doe, hide it, least it prooue a scab in time: hang thee desperation, hang thee, thou knowst▪ I cannot be sharpe set against thee: looke, feele (my light-vptailes all) feele my weapon. O most pittifull a as my great thumbe.