Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) comedy · King's Men T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.78 · 504 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
NOw, luck yet send us, and a little wit Will serve, to make our play hit; (According to the palates of the season) Here is rhyme, not empty of reason: This we were bid to credit, from our Poet, Whose true scope, if you would know it, In all his poems, still, hath been this measure, To mix profit, with your pleasure; And not as some (whose throats their envy failing) Cry hoarsely, all he writes, is railing: And, when his plays come forth, think they can flout them, With saying, he was a year about them. To these there needs no lie, but this his creature, Which was, two months since, no feature; And, though he dares give them five lives to mend it, 'Tis known, five weeks fully penned it: From his own hand, without a coadjutor, Novice, journeyman, or tutor. Yet, thus much I can give you, as a token Of his plays worth, no eggs are broken; Nor quaking custards with fierce teeth affrighted, Wherewith your rout are so delighted; Nor hales he in a gull, old ends reciting, To stop gaps in his loose writing; With such a deal of monstrous, and forced action: As might make bedlam a faction: Nor made he his play, for jests, stolen from each table, But makes jests, to fit his fable. And, so presents quick comedy, refined, As best Critics have designed, The laws of time, place, persons he observeth, From no needful rule he swerveth. All gall, and coppresse, from his ink, he draineth, Only, a little salt remaineth; Wherewith, he'll rub your cheeks, till (red with laughter) They shall look fresh, a week after. GOod morning to the day; and, next, my gold: Open the shrine, that I may see my saint. Hail the world's soul, and mine. More glad than is The teeming earth, to see the longed-for sun Peep through the horns of the celestial ram, Am I, to view thy splendour, darkening his: That, lying here, amongst my other hoards, show'st like a flame, by night; or like the day Struck out of chaos, when all darkness fled Unto the centre. O, thou son of SOL, (But brighter than thy father) let me kiss, With adoration, thee, and every relic Of sacred treasure, in this blessed room. Well did wise Poets, by thy glorious name, Title that age, which they would have the best; Thou being the best of things: and far transcending All style of joy, in children, parents, friends, Or any other waking dream on earth. Thy looks, when they to VENUS did ascribe, They should have given her twenty thousand CUPIDS; Such are thy beauties, and our loves! Dear saint, Riches, the dumb god, that giv'st all men tongues: That canst do nought, and yet mak'st men do all things; The price of souls; even hell, with thee to boot, Is made worth heaven! Thou art virtue, fame, Honour, and all things else! Who can get thee, He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise—
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)
NOw, luck yet send vs, and a little wit Will serue, to make our play hit; (According to the palates of the season) Here is ri'me, not emptie of reason: This we were bid to credit, from our Poet, Whose true scope, if you would know it, In all his poemes, stil, hath been this measure, To mixe profit, with your pleasure; And not as some (whose throats their enuy fayling) Cry hoarsely, all he writes, is rayling: And, when his playes come forth, thinke they can flout them, With saying, he was a yeere about them. To these there needs no lie, but this his creature, Which was, two months since, no feature; And, though he dares giue them fiue liues to mend it, 'Tis knowne, fiue weekes fully pen'd it: From his owne hand, without a co-adiutor, Nouice, iourney-man, or tutor. Yet, thus much I can giue you, as a token Of his playes worth, no egges are broken; Nor quaking custards with fierce teeth affrighted, Wherewith your rout are so delighted; Nor hales he in a gull, old ends reciting, To stop gaps in his loose writing; With such a deale of monstrous, and forc'd action: As might make Bet'lem a faction: Nor made he' his play, for iests, stolne from each table, But makes iests, to fit his fable. And, so presents quick comoedie, resined, As best Criticks haue designed, The lawes of time, place, persons he obserueth, From no needfull rule he swerueth. All gall, and coppresse, from his inke, he drayneth, Onely, a little salt remayneth; Wherewith, he'll rub your cheeks, til (red with laughter) They shall looke fresh, a weeke after. GOod morning to the day; and, next, my gold: Open the shrine, that I may see my saint. Haile the worlds soule, and mine. More glad then is The teeming earth, to see the long'd-for sunne Peepe through the hornes of the celestiall ram, Am I, to view thy splendor, darkening his: That, lying here, amongst my other hoords, Shew'st like a flame, by night; or like the day Strooke out of chaos, when all darkenesse fled Vnto the center. O, thou sonne of SOL, (But brighter then thy father) let me kisse, With adoration, thee, and euery relique Of sacred treasure, in this blessed roome. Well did wise Poets, by thy glorious name, Title that age, which they would haue the best; Thou being the best of things: and far transcending All stile of ioy, in children, parents, friends, Or any other waking dreame on earth. Thy lookes, when they to VENVS did ascribe, They should haue giu'n her twentie thousand CVPIDS; Such are thy beauties, and our loues! Deare saint, Riches, the dumbe god, that giu'st all men tongues: That canst doe nought, and yet mak'st men doe all things; The price of soules; euen hell, with thee to boot, Is made worth heauen! Thou art vertue, fame, Honour, and all things else! Who can get thee, He shall be noble, valiant, honest, wise—