Histriomastix, or The Player Whipped · chunk 21 of 25
Marston, John · published 1610 · first performed or written 1599 [1598-1599] (Annals) moral · Unknown T37 Riches, poverty and covetousness typicality 0.71 · 479 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T37: wealth, riches, money, god, rich, poverty, men, learning, poor, ic.
They cry arm arm methinks. O sweet heart the Spaniards are come, We shall all be killed they say. Master Vourcher what shall we do? O Lord. Arm, arm, arm. Come on Players, now we are the Sharers And you the hired men: Nay you must take patience, Slid how do you march? Sirrah is this you would rend and tear the Cat Upon a Stage, and now march like a drowned rat? Look up and play the Tamburlaine: you rogue you. Thus Heaven (in spite of fury) can preserve, The trustful innocent, and guiltless Soul; O, what a thing is man, that thus forgets The end of his creation; and each hour Strikes at the glory of his maker thus? What brazen visage, or black iron soul Hath strength to justify so Godless deeds? He that is most enfeoffed to Tyranny, The man whose jaws burn most with thirst of blood, What colours or thin cobweb can he weave, To cover so abhorred iniquities? If then there be no shadow, no pretext, To vail their loathed bodies; what should make Men so enamoured on this Strumpet war. To dote upon her form? when (in herself) she's made of nothing, but infectious plagues. Witness the present Chaos of our Scene, Where every street is chained with links of spoil, Here proud Ambition rides; there Fury flies, Here Horror; and there ruthless Murder stalks, Led on by Ruin, and in Steel and fire, That now on tops of houses; now in vaults, Now in the sacred Temples; here, and there Runs wild. Reign Poverty in spite of tragic war, And triumph over glittering vanity, Though want be never void of bitter woes, Yet slow-paced remedy, true patience shows, See worldling worlds of Virtue lined within, Though sinners all; yet least replete with sin. I scorn a scoffing fool about my Throne, An Artless Idiot; that (like Esop's Daw, Plumes fairer feathered birds: no, Poverty, Will dignify her chair with deep Divines, Philosophers and scholars feast with me, As well as Martialists in misery. First change the hour from five to fatal six, Then ring forth knells of heavy discontent, With sighs and groans whilst I have government. Thin Famine needs must follow Poverty. My bones lie open, like a withered tree By storms disbarked of her defending skin, So near the heart the weather beats within. O end thy Age! that we may end our days, Once Objects, now all Abjects to the world, For after feeble Sickness death ensues, And endeth grief that happy joy renews. Then Bondage shall unbolt those cruel bars, That thralls fair honour in obscure reproach, And savage-like yokes up humanity, To bind in chains trueborn civility. Though Sluttishness be loathsome to herself, Penurious time must be obscene and base, Who hates the rich must dwell with Poverty, Since rule in any thing, is Sovereignty.
seed 43: T35 · seed 44: T34 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
They cry arme arme me thinkes. O sweet heart the Spaniards are come, We shall all be kild they say. Maister Vourcher what shall we doe? O Lord. Arme, arme, arme. Come on Players, now we are the Sharers And you the hired men: Nay you must take patience, Slid how do you march? Sirha is this you would rend and teare the Cat Vpon a Stage, and now march like a drown'd rat? Looke vp and play the Tamburlaine: you rogue you. Thus Heauen (in spite of fury) can preserue, The trustfull innocent, and guiltlesse Soule; O, what a thing is man, that thus forgets The end of his creation; and each houre Strikes at the glory of his maker thus? What brazen vizage, or black yron soule Hath strength to Iustifie so Godlesse deeds? Hee that is most infeoft to Tyrannie, The man whose Iawes burne most with thirst of bloud, What coulours or thin cobweb can he weaue, To couer so abhor'd iniquities? If then there be no shadow, no pretext, To vaile their loathed bodies; what should make Men so inamour'd on this Strumpet warre. To doate vpon her forme? when (in her selfe) Shee's made of nothing, but infectious plagues. Witnesse the present Chaos of our Sceane, Where euery streete is chain'd with linckes of spoile, Heere proud Ambition rides; there Furie flies, Heere Horror; and there ruthlesse Murder stalkes, Led on by Ruine, and in Steele and fire, That now on toppes of houses; now in vaults, Now in the sacred Temples; heere, and there Runnes wilde. Raigne Pouerty in spite of tragick warre, And tiumph ouer glittering vanitie, Though want be neuer voide of bitter woes, Yet slow-pac'd remedy, true patience showes, See worldling worlds of Vertue lin'd within, Though sinners all; yet least repleat with sinne. I scorne a scoffing foole about my Throne, An Artlesse Ideot; that (like Esops Dawe, Plumes fairer fether'd birds: no, Pouerty, Will dignifie her chaire with deepe Diuines, Philosophers and Schollers feast with me, As well as Martialists in misery. First change the houre from fiue to fatall sixe, Then ring forth knells of heauie discontent, With fighes and groanes whil'st I haue gouernment. Thin Famine needs must follow Pouerty. My bones lye open, like a withered tree By stormes disbarkt of her defending skinne, So neere the heart the weather beates within. O end thy Age! that we may end our dayes, Once Obiects, now all Abiects to the world, For after feeble Sicknesse death ensues, And endeth griefe that happy ioye renews. Then Bondage shall vnbolt those cruell barres, That thralls faire honour in obscure reproach, And sauage-like yoakes vp humanity, To bind in chaines true-borne ciuillity. Though Sluttishnesse be loathsome to her selfe, Penurious time must be obscaene and base, Who hates the rich must dwell with Pouerty, Since rule in any thing, is Soueraignty.