Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.81 · 504 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
FORTUNE, that favours fools, these two short hours We wish away; both for your sakes, and ours, judging Spectators: and desire in place, To th'Author justice, to ourselves but grace. Our Scene is London, 'cause we would make known, No country's mirth is better than our own. No clime breeds better matter, for your whore, Bawd, squire, impostor, many persons more, Whose manners, now called humours, feed the stage: And which have still been subject, for the rage Or spleen of comic-writers. Though this pen Did never aim to grieve, but better men; howe'er the age, he lives in, doth endure The vices that she breeds, above their cure. But, when the wholesome remedies are sweet, And, in their working, gain, and profit meet, He hopes to find no spirit so much diseased, But will, with such fair correctives be pleased. For here, he doth not fear, who can apply. If there be any, that will sit so nigh Unto the stream, to look what it doth run, They shall find things, they'd think, or wish, were done; They are so natural follies, but so shown, As even the doers may see, and yet not own. believe't, I will. Thy worst. I fart at thee. Ha' you your wits? Why gentlemen! for love— Sirrah, I'll strip you— What to do? lick sigs Out at my— Rogue, rogue, out of all your sleights. Nay, look ye! Sovereign, General, are you madmen? O, let the wild sheep lose. I'll gum your silks With good strong water, an'you come. Will you have The neighbours hear you? Will you betray all? Hark, I hear somebody. Sirrah— I shall mar All that the tailor has made, if you approach. You most notorious whelp, you insolent slave. Dare you do this? Yes faith, yes faith. Why! who Am I, my mongrel? Who am I? I'll tell you, Since you know not yourself— Speak lower, rogue. Yes. You were once (time's not long passed) the good, Honest, plain, livery-three-pound-thrum; that kept Your master's worship's house, here, in the friars, For the vacations— Will you be so loud? Since, by my means, translated suburb-captain. By your means, Doctor dog? Within man's memory, All this, I speak of. Why, I pray you, have I Been countenanced by you? or you, by me? Do but collect, sir, where I met you first. I do not hear well. Not of this, I think it. But I shall put you in mind, sir, at pie-corner. Taking your meal of steam in, from cook's stalls, Where, like the father of hunger, you did walk Piteously costive, with your pinched-horn-nose, And your complexion, of the romane wash, Stuck full of black, and melancholic worms, Like poulder-corns, shot, at th'artillery-yard. I wish, you could advance your voice, a little. When you went pinned up, in the several rags, Yo'had raked, and picked from dunghills, before day, Your feet in mouldy slippers, for your kibes, A felt of rug, and a thin threaden cloak, That scarce would cover your no-buttocks—
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 0–74 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 1 of 40 in this edition
Length
504 words · 762 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T9 — Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playerscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.812 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
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)
FORTVNE, that fauours fooles, these two short houres We wish away; both for your sakes, and ours, Iudging Spectators: and desire in place, To th'Author iustice, to our selues but grace. Our Scene is London, 'cause we would make knowne, No countries mirth is better then our owne. No clime breeds better matter, for your whore, Bawd, squire, impostor, many persons more, Whose manners, now call'd humors, feed the stage: And which haue still beene subiect, for the rage Or spleene of comick-writers. Though this pen Did neuer aime to grieue, but better men; How e'er the age, he liues in, doth endure The vices that shee breeds, aboue their cure. But, when the wholsome remedies are sweet, And, in their working, gaine, and profit meet, He hopes to find no spirit so much diseas'd, But will, with such faire correctiues be pleas'd. For here, he doth not feare, who can apply. If there be any, that will sit so nigh Vnto the streame, to looke what it doth run, They shall find things, they'ld thinke, or wish, were done; They are so naturall follies, but so showne, As euen the doers may see, and yet not owne. BEleeu't, I will. Thy worst. I fart at thee. Ha' you your wits? Why gentlemen! for loue— Sirrah, I'll strip you— What to doe? lick sigs Out at my— Rogue, rogue, out of all your sleights. Nay, looke yee! Soueraigne, Generall, are you mad-men? O, let the wild sheepe loose. Ile gumme your silkes With good strong water, an'you come. Will you haue The neighbours heare you? Will you betray all? Harke, I heare some body. Sirrah— I shall marre All that the taylor has made, if you approch. You most notorious whelpe, you insolent slaue. Dare you doe this? Yes faith, yes faith. Why! who Am I, my mungrill? Who am I? I'll tell you, Since you know not your selfe— Speake lower, rogue. Yes. You were once (time's not long past) the good, Honest, plaine, liuery-three-pound-thrum; that kept Your masters worships house, here, in the friers, For the vacations— Will you be so lowd? Since, by my meanes, translated suburb-Captayne. By your meanes, Doctor dog? Within mans memorie, All this, I speake of. Why, I pray you, haue I Beene countenanc'd by you? or you, by me? Doe but collect, sir, where I met you first. I doe not heare well. Not of this, I thinke it. But I shall put you in mind, sir, at pie-corner. Taking your meale of steeme in, from cookes stalls, Where, like the father of hunger, you did walke Piteously costiue, with your pinch'd-horne-nose, And your complexion, of the romane wash, Stuck full of black, and melancholique wormes, Like poulder-cornes, shot, at th'artillerie-yard. I wish, you could aduance your voice, a little. When you went pinn'd vp, in the seuerall rags, Yo'had rak'd, and pick'd from dung-hills, before day, Your feet in mouldie slippers, for your kibes, A felt of rugg, and a thin thredden cloake, That scarce would couer your no-buttocks—