Histriomastix, or The Player Whipped · chunk 5 of 25
Marston, John · published 1610 · first performed or written 1599 [1598-1599] (Annals) moral · Unknown unassigned nearest T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe · 510 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
For this abundance poured at Plenty's feet, You shall be tetrarchs of this petty world. What dullards thus, would dote in rusty Art? Plodding upon a book to dull the sense, And see the world become a treasure-house, Where Angels swarm like Bees in Plenty's streets, And every Peasant surfeits on their sweets? Give me a season that will stir the blood I like not niggardize to hunger-starve, 'tis good when poormen frolic in the hall, The whilst our fathers in the Chambers feast, And none repines at any stranger-guest. Who was the author of this store, but Peace? That commonwealth is never well at ease, Where Parchment skins, whose use should bear records, Must head their brawling Drums and keep a coil, As if they threatened Plenty with a spoil. Your houses must be open to the poor, Your dusty Tables filled with store of meat, Let goodly yeomen at your elbows stand, Swords by their sides and trenchers in their hand: Long-skirted coats, wide-sleeves with cloth enough: Thus Lords, you shall my government enlarge, Reverence your Queen, by practising her charge. Ours be the charge and thine the Empire. Gallants let us invent some pleasing sports, To fit the Plenteous humour of the Time, What better recreations can you find, Then sacred knowledge in divinest things. Your books are Adamants and you the Iron That cleaves to them till you confound yourself Poor Scholar spend thy spirits so and die. Let them do so that list, so will not!. I cannot feed my appetite with Air, I must pursue my pleasures royally, That sponged in sweat, I may return from sport, Mount me on horseback, keep the Hounds and Hawks, And leave this Idle contemplation, To rugged Stoical Morosophists. O! did you but your own true glories know, Your judgements would not then decline so low. What Master Pedant, pray forbear, forbear. 'tis you my Lord that must forbear to err. 'Tis still safe erring with the multitude: A wretched moral; more than barbarous rude. How you translating-scholar? you can make A stabbing satire, or an Epigram, And think you carry just Ramnusia's whip To lash the patient; go, get you clothes, Our freeborn blood such apprehension loathes. Proud Lord, poor Art shall wear a glorious crown, When her despisers die to all renown. where's this drunkard clerk to ring the bell? Heigho, bottle Ale has buttoned my cap. What's a quarter of Corn? Two and sixpence. tie't up 'tis mine. ha' y' any Potatoes? Th'abundance will not quite-cost the bringing. What's your Cock-sparrows a dozen? A penny Mistress. there's for a dozen; hold. All they that can sing and say, Come to the townhouse and see a Play, At three o'clock it shall begin, The finest play that e'er was seen. Yet there is one thing more in my mind, Take heed you leave not your purses behind. What's your plays name? Masters whose men are ye? how the sign of the Owl i'th' luy bush? Ser Oliver Owlets. 'tis a sign ye are not blind Sir.
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)
For this aboundance powr'd at Plenties feet, You shall be Tetrarch's of this petty world. What dullards thus, would dote in rusty Arte? Plod ding vpon a booke to dull the sence, And see the world become a treasure-house, Where Angells swarme like Bees in Plenties streets, And euery Peasant surfets on their sweetes? Giue mee a season that will sturre the blood I like not Nigardice to hungar-starue, Tis good when pooremen frolicke in the hall, The whil'st our fathers in the Chambers feast, And none repines at any stranger-guest. Who was the authour of this store, but Peace? That common-welth is neuer well at ease, Where Parchment skinnes, whose vse should beare records, Must head their brawling Drummes and keepe a coyle, As if they threatned Plenty with a spoyle. Your houses must bee open to the poore, Your dusty Tables fill'd with store of meate, Let goodly yeomen at your elboes stand, Swords by their sides and trenchers in their hand: Long-skirted coates, wide-sleeues with cloth' inough: Thus Lords, you shall my gouernment enlarge, Reuerence your Queene, by practizing her charge. Ours be the charge and thine the Empire. Gallants let vs inuent some pleasing sportes, To fit the Plentuous humor of the Time, What better recreations can you find, Then sacred knowledge in diuinest thinges. Your bookes are Adamants and you the Iron That cleaues to them till you confound your selfe Poore Scholler spend thy spirits so and dye. Let them doe soe that list, so will not!. I cannot feed my appetite with Ayre, I must pursue my pleasures royally, That spung'd in sweat, I may returne from sport, Mount mee on horse-back, keepe the Hounds and Haukes, And leaue this Idle contemplation, To rugged Stoicall Morosophists. O! did you but your owne true glories know, Your iudgements would not then decline so low. What Maister Pedant, pray forbeare, forbeare. Tis you my Lord that must forbeare to erre. 'Tis still safe erring with the multitude: A wretched morall; more then barbarous rude. How you translating-scholler? you can make A stabbing Satir, or an Epigram, And thinke you carry iust Ramnusia's whippe To lash the patient; goe, get you clothes, Our free-borne blood such apprehension lothes. Proud Lord, poore Art shall weare a glorious crowne, When her despisers die to all renowne. Wher's this drunkard Clarke to ring the bell? Heigho, bottle Ale has buttond my cappe. Whats a quarter of Corne? Two and six-pence. Ty't vp tis mine. ha'y' any Potatoes? Th'aboundance will not quite-cost the bringing. What's your Cock-sparrowes a dozen? A penny Mistresse. Ther's for a dozen; hold. All they that can sing and say, Come to the Towne-house and see a Play, At three a clocke it shall beginne, The finest play that e're was seene. Yet there is one thing more in my minde, Take heed you leaue not your purses behinde. What's your playes name? Maisters whose men are ye? how the signe of the Owle ith luy bush? Ser Oliuer Owlets. Tis a signe yee are not blind Sir.