Shakespeare, William · published 1609 · first performed or written 1602 [1602-1603] (Annals) tragedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men · Globe unassigned nearest T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe · 531 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
The great Achilles whom opinion crowns, The sinew and the forehand of our host, Having his ear full of his airy fame, Grows dainty of his worth, and in his Tent Lies mocking our designs: with him Patroclus Upon a lazy bed the livelong day, Breaks scurrell jests, And with ridiculous and silly action, Which (slanderer) he Imitation calls, He pageants us. Sometime great Agamemnon, Thy topless deputation he puts on, And like a strutting Player, whose conceit Lies in his ham-string, and doth think it rich To here the wooden dialogue and sound, Twixt his stretched footing and the scaffollage, Such to be pitied and ore-rested seeming, He acts thy greatness in. And when he speaks, 'tis like a chime a mending, with terms vnsquare, Which from the tongue of roaring Typhoon dropped, Would seem hyperboles, at this fusty stuff, The large Achilles on his priest bed lolling, From his deep chest laughs out aloud applause, Cries excellent; 'tis Agamemnon right, Now play me Nestor, him and stroke thy beard, As he being dressed to some Oration, That's done, as near as the extremest ends Of parallels as like as Vulcan and his wife: Yet god Achilles still cries excellent, 'tis Nestor right: now play him me Patroclus, Arming to answer in a night alarm, And then forsooth the faint defects of age, Must be the scene of mirth, to cough and spit, And with a palsy fumbling on his gorget, Shake in and out the rivet, and at this sport Sir valour dies, cries O enough Patroclus, Or give me ribs of steel, I shall split all In pleasure of my spleen, and in this fashion, All our abilities gifts, natures shapes, severals and generals of grace exact, achievements, plots, orders, preventions, Excitements to the field, or speech for truce, Success or loss, what is, or is not, serves As stuff for these two to make paradoxes. And in the imitation of these twain, Who as Ulysses says opinion crowns, With an imperial voice: many are infect, Ajax is grown self-willed, and bears his head In such a rain, in full as proud a place As broad Achilles: keeps his Tent like him, Makes factious feasts, rails on our state of war, bold as an Oracle, and sets Thersites A slave, whose gall coins slanders like a mint, To match vs in comparisons with dirt, To weaken our discredit, our exposure How rank so ever rounded in with danger, They tax our-pollicie; and call it cowardice; Count wisdom as no member of the war, Forstall prescience, and esteem no act But that of hand, the still and mental parts, That do contrive how many hands shall strike, When fitness calls them on, and know by measure Of their observant toil the enemy's weight, Why this hath not a fingers dignity, They call this bed-worke, mappry, Closet war, So that the Ram that batters down the wall, For the great swinge and rudeness of his poise, They place before his hand that made the engine, Or those that with the finesse of their souls, By reason guide his execution. Let this be granted, and Achilles' horse Makes many Thetis sons,
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T15 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
The great Achilles whom opinion crownes, The sinnow and the fore-hand of our hoste, Hauing his care full of his ayie same, Growes dainty of his worth, and in his Tent Lies mocking our designes: with him Patroclus Vpon a lazie bed the liue-long day, Breakes scurrell iests, And with ridiculous and sillie action, Which (slanderer) he Imitation calls, He pageants vs. Some-time great Agamemnon, Thy toplese deputation he puts on, And like a strutting Player, whose conceit Lyes in his ham-sting, and doth thinke it rich To heere the woodden dialogue and sound, Twixt his stretcht footing and the scoaffollage, Such to be pitied and ore-rested seeming, He act thy greatnesse in▪ And when he speakes, Tis like a chime a mending, with termes vnsquae, Which from the tongue of roaring Tiphon dropt, Would seeme hiperboles, at this fustie stuffe, The large Achilles on his prest bed lolling, From his deepe chest laughes out alowd applause, Cries excellent; 'tis Agmemnon right, Now play me Nestr, hem and stroake thy beard, As he being drest to some Oration, That's done, as neere s the extremest ends Of paralells as like as Vnlcan and his wife: Yet god Achilles still cries excellent, Tis Nestor right: now play him me Patroclus, Arming to answer in a night alarme, And then forsooth the faint defects of age, Must be the scaene of myrth, to coffe and spit, And with a palsie fumbling on his gorget, Shake in and out the riuet, and at this sport Sir valour dyes, cryes O enough Patrocls, Or giue me ribbs of steele, I shall split all In pleasure of my spleene, and in this fashion, All our abilities guifts, natures shapes, Seueralls and generalls of grace exact, Atchiuements, plots, orders, preuentions, Excitements to the field, or speech for truc, Successe or losse, what is, or is not, As stuffe for these two▪ to make paradoxes. And in the imitation of these twaine, Who as Vlisses sayes opinion crownes, With an imperiall voyce: many aro infect, Aiax is growne selfe-wild, and beares his head In such a reyne, in full as proud a place As broad Achilles: eepes his Tent like him, Makes factious fasts, railes on our state of warre, Bould as an Oracle, and sets Thersites A slaue, whose gal coynes standers like a mint, To match vin comparisons with durt, To weaken our discredit, our exposure How ranke so euer rounded in with danger, They taxe our-pollicie; and call it cowardice; Count wisdome as no member of the warre, Forstall prescience, and esteeme no act But that of hand, the stil and mentall parts, That do contrie how many hands shall stike, When fitnesse calls them on, and know by measure Of their obserant royle the enemies waight, Why this hath not a finges dignitie, They call this bed-worke, mappry, Closet warre, So that the Ram that batters downe the wall, For the great swinge and rudenesse of his poise, They place before his hand that made the engine, Or those that with the of their soules, By reason guide his execution. Let this be granted, and Achilles horse Makes many sonnes,