Satiromastix, or The Untrussing of the Humorous Poet · chunk 41 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 T35 Fools, wit and railing · 508 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
I sweat for't, but Tawnycoat, hold thy tongue Mon du, if thou'lt praise me, do't behind my back: I am my weighty Sovereign one of thy grains, thy valiant vassal; ask not what I am, but read, turn over, unclasp thy Chronicles: there thou shalt find buff-jerkin; there read my points of war; I am one a thy Mandilian-Leaders; one that enters into thy royal bands for thee; Pantilius Tucca; one of thy kingdoms chiefest quarrelers; one a thy most faithful— fie— drunkards I hold my life. No whirligig, one of his faithful fighters; thy drawer o royal Tamor Cham. Go too, I pray Captain Tucca, give us all leave to do our business before the King. With all my heart, shi, shi, shi shake that Bear-whelp when thou wilt. Horace and Bubo, pray send an answer into his Masesties ears, why you go thus in Ovid's Morter-Morphesis and strange fashions of apparel. Cur why? My Lords, I was drawn into this beastly suit by head and shoulders only for love I bore to my Ningle. Speak Ningle, thy mouth's next, belch out, belch, why— I did it to retire me from the world; And turn my Muse into a Timonist, Loathing the general leprosy of Sin, Which like a plague runs through the souls of men: I did it but to— But to bite every Motley-head vice byth' nose, you did it Ningle to play the Bugbear Satire, & make a Camp royal of fashion-mongers quake at your paper Bullets; you Nasty tortoise, you and your Itchy Poetry break out like Christmas, but once a year, and than you keep a reveling, & arraigning, & a Scratching of men's faces, as though you were Tiber the long-tailed Prince of Rats, do you? Horace. Silence, pray let all words be strangled, or held fast between your teeth. Under control of my dread Sovereign, We are thy judges; thou that didst Arraign, Art now prepared for condemnation; Should I but bid thy Muse stand to the Bar, thyself against her wouldst give evidence: For flat rebellion 'gainst the Sacred laws, Of divine Poesy: herein most she missed, Thy pride and scorn made her turn Satirist, And not her love to virtue (as thou Preachest) Or should we minister strong pills to thee: What lumps of hard and indigested stuff, Of bitter Satirism, of Arrogance, Of self-love, of Detraction, of a black And stinging Insolence should we fetch up? But none of these, we give thee what's more fit, With stinging nettles Crown his stinging wit. Well said my Poetical huckster, now he's in thy handling rate him, do rate him well. O I beseech your Majesty, rather than thus to be neted, I'll ha' my satires coat pulled over mine ears, and be turned out a the nine muse's Service. And I too, let me be put to my shifts with mine Ningle. By Sesu so you shall M. Bubo; flay off this hairy skin M. Horace, so, so, so, untruss, untruss. His Poetical wreath my dapper punk-fetcher. oh—
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)
I sweate for't, but Tawsoone, holde thy tongue Mon du, if thou't praise mee, doo't behinde my backe: I am my weighty Soueraigne one of thy graines, thy valliant vassaile; aske not what I am, but read, turne ouer, vnclaspe thy Chronicles: there thou shalt finde Buffe-Ierkin; there read my points of war; I am one a thy Mandilian-Leaders; one that enters into thy royall bands for thee; Pantilius Tucca; one of thy Kingdomes chiefest quarrellers; one a thy most faithfull—fy—fy—fy— Drunkerds I holde my life. No whirligig, one of his faithfull fighters; thy drawer ô royall Tamor Cham. Goe too, I pray Captaine Tucca, giue vs all leaue to doe our busines before the King. With all my heart, shi, shi, shi shake that Beare-whelp when thou wut. Horace and Bubo, pray send an answere into his Masesties eares, why you goe thus in Ouids Morter-Morphesis and strange fashions of apparrell. Cur why? My Lords, I was drawne into this beastly suite by head and shoulders onely for loue I bare to my Ningle. Speake Ningle, thy mouth's next, belch out, belch, why— I did it to retyre me from the world; And turne my Muse into a Timonist, Loathing the general Leprozie of Sinne, Which like a plague runs through the soules of men: I did it but to— But to bite euery Motley-head vice by'th nose, you did it Ningle to play the Bug-beare Satyre, & make a Campe royall of fashion-mongers quake at your paper Bullets; you Nastie Tortois, you and your Itchy Poetry breake out like Christmas, but once a yeare, and then you keepe a Reuelling, & Araigning, & a Scratching of mens faces, as tho you were Tyber the long-tail'd Prince of Rattes, doe you? Horace. Silence, pray let all vdes be strangled, or held fast betweene your teeth. Vnder controule of my dread Soueraigne, We are thy Iudges; thou that didst Arraigne, Art now prepar'd for condemnation; Should I but bid thy Muse stand to the Barre, Thy selfe against her wouldst giue euidence: For flat rebellion gainst the Sacred lawes, Of diuine Poesie: heerein most she mist, Thy pride and scorne made her turne Satrist, And not her loue to verue (as thou Preachest) Or should we minister strong pilles to thee: What lumpes of hard and indigested stuffe, Of bitter Sairism, of Arrogance, Of Selfe-loue, of Detraction, of a blacke And stinging Insolence should we fetch vp? But none of these, we giue thee what's more fit, With stinging nettles Crowne his stinging wit. Wel said my Poeticall huckster, now he's in thy handling rate him, doe rate him well. O I beseech your Maiesty, rather then thus to be neted, Ile ha my Satyres coate pull'd ouer mine eares, and bee turn'd out a the nine Muses Seruice. And I too, let mee be put to my shiftes with myne Ningle. By Sesu so you shall M. Bubo; flea off this hairie skin M. Horace, so, so, so, vntrusse, vntrusse. His Poeticall wreath my dapper puncke-fetcher. Ooh—