Barry, Lording · published 1611 · first performed or written 1608 [1608-1610(?)] (Annals) comedy · Children of the King's Revels T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.83 · 445 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
Homebred mirth our Muse doth sing, The satires tooth and Waspish sting, Which most do hurt when least suspected, By this Play are not affected; But if Conceit with quick-turned Scenes, Observing all those ancient streams, Which from the Horsefoot fount do flow, As Time, Place, Person, and to show, Things never done with that true life, That thoughts and wits shall stand at strife, Whether the things now shown be true, Or whether we ourselves now do The things we but present: if these Free from the loathsome stage disease, (So overworn, so tired and stale, Not satiring but to rail,) May win your favours, and inherit But calm acceptance for his merit: A vows by Paper, Pen and Ink, And by the learned sister's drink, To spend his Time, his Lamps, his Oil, And never cease his brain to toil, Till from the silent hours of night, He doth produce for your delight, Conceits so new, so harmless free, That Puritans themselves may see A Play, yet not in public Preach, That Players such lewd doctrine teach That their pure joints do quake and tremble, When they do see a man resemble The Picture of a Villain: This As he a friend to Muses is, To you by me a gives his word, Is all his Play doth now afford. IN this disguise, (ere scarce my mourning robes) Could have a general note, I have forsook, My shape, my mother. and those rich demeans, Of which I am sole heir, and now resolve, In this disguise of Page to follow him, Whose love first caused me to assume this shape. Lord how my feminine blood stirs at the sight Of these same breeches, methinks this codpiece Should betray me: well, I will try the worst, Hither they say he usually doth come, Whom I so much affect, what makes he here In the skirts of Holborn, so near the field, And at a garden house, a has some punk Upon my life: no more here he comes. God save you sir: your name unless I err, Is master Thomas Boutcher. 'Tis sweet boy. I have a letter for you. From whom is't, The inside sir will tell you: I shall see What love he bears me now. thouart welcome boy. How does the fair Constantia Somerfield, My noble mistress. I left her in health. she gives thee here good words, and for her sake, Thou shalt not want a master, be mine for ever. I thank you sir: now shall I see the Punk. Who knocks so fast? I thought 'twas you, what news. You know my business well, I sing one song.
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)
HOme-bred mirth our Muse doth sing, The Satyres tooth and Waspish sting, Which most do hurt when least suspected, By this Play are not affected; But if Conceit with quick-turn'd Sceanes, Obseruing all those ancient streames, Which from the Horse-foot fount do flow, As Time, Place, Person, and to show, Things neuer done with that true life, That thoughts and wits shall stand at strife, Whether the things now shewne be true, Or whether wee our selues now do The things wee but present: if these Free from the loathsome stage disease, (So ouer-worne, so tirde and stale, Not Satyring but to raile,) May win your fauours, and inherit But calme acceptance for his merit: A vowes by Paper, Pen and Inke, And by the learned Sisters drinke, To spend his Time, his Lamps, his Oyle, And neuer cease his braine to toyle, Till from the silent houres of night, Hee doth produce for your delight, Conceits so new, so harmlesse free, That Puritanes them-selues may see A Play, yet not in publique Preach, That Players such lewd doctrine teach That their pure ioynts do quake and tremble, VVhen they doe see a man resemble The Picture of a Villaine: This As hee a friend to Muses is, To you by mee a giues his word, Is all his Play doth now affoord. IN this disguise, (ere scarce my mourning robes) Could haue a generall note, I haue forsooke, My shape, my mother▪ and those ritch demeanes, Of which I am sole heyre, and now resolue, In this disguise of Page to follow him, Whose loue first caused me to assume this shape. Lord how my feminine bloud stirs at the sight Of these same breeches, me thinkes this cod-peece Should betray mee: well, I will trye the worst, Hether they say hee vsually doth come, Whom I so much affect, what makes he heere In the skirts of Holborne, so neere the field, And at a garden house, a has some punke Vpon my life: no more heere hee comes. God saue you sir: your name vnlesse I erre, Is maister Thomas Boutcher. 'Tis sweet boy. I haue a letter for you. From whom ist, The inside sir will tell you: I shall see What loue he beares me now. Th'art welcome boy. How does the faire Constantia Somerfield, My noble mistresse. I left her in health. Shee giues thee heere good words, and for her sake, Thou shalt not want a maister, be mine for euer. I thanke you sir: now shall I see the Punke. Who knocks so fast? I thought 'twas you, what news. You know my businesse well, I sing one song.