The Roaring Girl, or Moll Cutpurse · chunk 47 of 47
Dekker, Thomas / Middleton, Thomas · published 1611 · first performed or written 1611 (Annals) comedy · Prince Henry's Men · Fortune unassigned nearest T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe · 521 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
To all which, shame and grief in me cry guilty, Forgive me now, I cast the world's eyes from me, And look upon thee freely with mine own: I see the most of many wrongs before he, Cast from the jaws of envy and her people, And nothing foul but that, I'll never more Condemn by common voice, for that's the whore, That deceives man's opinion; mocks his trust, cousins his love, and makes his heart unjust. Here be the Angels Gentlemen, they were given me As a Musitian, I pursue no pity, Follow the law, and you can cuck me, spare not Hang up my vial by me, and I care not. So far I'm sorry, I'll thrice double 'em To make thy wrongs amends, Come worthy friends my honourable Lord, Sir Beauteous Ganymed, and Noble Fitz-Allard, And you kind Gentlewoman, whose sparkling presence, Are glories set in marriage, beams of society, For all your loves give luster to my joys, The happiness of this day shall be remembered, At the return of every smiling spring: In my time now 'tis borne, and may no sadness Sit on the brows of men upon that day, But as I am, so all go pleased away. A Painter having drawn with curious Art The picture of a woman (every part, Limbed to the life) hung out the piece to sell: People (who passed along) viewing it well, Gave several verdicts on it. some dispraised The hair, some said the brows too high were raised, Some hit her o'er the lips, misliked their colour, Some wished her nose were shorter; some, the eyes fuller, Others said roses on her cheeks should grow, Swearing they looked too pale, others cried no, The workman still as fault was found, did mend it, In hope to please all; (but this work being ended) And hung open at stall, it was so vile, So monstrous and so ugly all men did smile At the poor painter's folly. Such we doubt Is this our Comedy, Some perhaps do flout The plot, saying; 'tis too thin, too weak, too mean, Some for the person will revile the scene. And wonder, that a creature of her being Should be the subject of a Poet, seeing In the world's eye, none weighs so light: others look For all those base tricks published in a book, (Foul as his brains they flowed from) of Cutpurse, Of Nips and Foists, nasty, obscene discourses, As full of lies, as empty of worth or wit, For any honest ear, or eye unfit. And thus, If we to every brain (that's humorous) Should fashion Scenes, we (with the Painter) shall In striving to please all, please none at all. Yet for such faults, as either the writers wit, Or negligence of the Actors do commit, Both crave your pardons: if what both have done, Cannot full pay your expectation, The roaring Girl herself some few days hence, Shall on this Stage, give larger recompense. (you, Which Mirth that you may share in, herself does woe And craves this sign, your hands to beckon her to you.
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)
To all which, shame and griefe in me cry guilty, Forgiue mee now, I cast the worlds eyes from mee, And looke vpon thee freely with mine owne: I see the most of many wrongs before hee, Cast from the iawes of enuy and her people, And nothing foule but that, Il'e neuer more Condemne by common voyce, for that's the whore, That deceiues mans opinion; mockes his trust, Cozens his loue, and makes his heart vniust. Here be the Angels Gentlemen, they were giuen me As a Musitian, I pursue no pitty, Follow the law, and you can cucke mee, spare not Hang vp my vyall by me, and I care not. So farre I'me sorry, I'le thrice double 'em To make thy wrongs amends, Come worthy friends my honourable Lord, Sir Bewteons Ganymed, and Noble Fitz-Allard, And you kind Gentlewoman, whose sparkling presence, Are glories set in mariage, beames of society, For all your loues giue luster to my ioyes, The happinesse of this day shall be remembred, At the returne of euery smiling spring: In my time now 'tis borne, and may no sadnesse Sit on the browes of men vpon that day, But as I am, so all goe pleas'd away. A Painter hauing drawne with curious Art The picture of a woman (euery part, Limb'd to the life) hung out the peece to sell: People (who pass'd along) veiwing it well, Gaue seuerall verdicts on it. some dispraised The haire, some sayd the browes too high were raised, Some hit her o're the lippes, mislik'd their colour, Some wisht her nose were shorter; some, the eyes fuller, Others sayd roses on her cheekes should grow, Swearing they lookt too pale, others cry'd no, The workeman still as fault was found, did mend it, In hope to please all; (but this worke being ended) And hung open at stall, it was so vile, So monstrous and so vgly all men did smile At the poore Painters folly. Such wee doubt Is this our Comedy, Some perhaps do floute The plot, saying; 'tis too thinne, too weake, too meane, Some for the person will reuile the Scoene. And wonder, that a creature of her being Should bee the subiect of a Poet, seeing In the worlds eie, none weighes so light: others looke For all those base trickes publish'd in a booke, (Foule as his braines they flow'd from) of Cut-purse, Of Nips and Foysts, nastie, obscoene discourses, As full of lies, as emptie of worth or wit, For any honest eare, or eye vnfit. And thus, If we to euery braine (that's humerous) Should fashion Sceanes, we (with the Painter) shall In striuing to please all, please none at all. Yet for such faults, as either the writers wit, Or negligence of the Actors do commit, Both craue your pardons: if what both haue done, Cannot full pay your expectation, The Roring Girle her selfe some few dayes hence, Shall on this Stage, giue larger recompence. (you, Which Mirth that you may share in, her selfe does woe And craues this signe, your hands to becken her to you.