Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1609 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Queen's Revels T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.84 · 522 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
TRuth says, of old, the art of making plays Was to content the people; & their praise Was to the Poet money, wine, and bays. But in this age, a sect of writers are, That, only, for particular like care, And will taste nothing that is populare. With such we mingle neither brains, nor breasts; Our wishes, like to those (make public feasts) Are not to please the cook's tastes, but the guests. Yet, if those cunning palates hither come, They shall find guests entreaty, and good room; And though all relish not, sure, there will be some, That, when they leave their seats, shall make 'em say, Who wrote that piece, could so have written a play: But that, he knew, this was the better way. For, to present all custard, or all tart, And have no other meats, to bear a part, Or to want bread, and salt, were but course art. The Poet prays you then, with better thought To sit; and, when his cares are all in brought, Though there be none far fet, there will dear-bought Be sit for ladies: some for lords, knights, squires, Some for your waiting wench, and city-wires, Some for your men, and daughters of Whitefriars. Nor is it, only, while you keep your seat Here, that his feast will last; but you shall eat A week at ordinaries, on his broken meat: If his Muse be true, Who commends her to you. THe ends of all, who for the Scene do write, Are, or should be, to profit, and delight. And stilled hath been the praise of all best times, So persons were not touched, to tax the crimes. Then, in this play, which we present to night, And make the object of your ear, and sight, On forfeit of yourselves, think nothing true: Lest so you make the maker to judge you. For he knows, Poet never credit gained By writing truths, but things (like truths) well feigned. If any, yet, will (with particular slight Of application) wrist what he doth write; And that he meant or him, or her, will say: They make a libel, which he made a play. HA' you got the song yet perfect I ga'you, boy? Yes, sir. Let me hear it. You shall, sir, but i' faith let no body else. Why, I pray? It will get you the dangerous name of a Poet in town, sir, besides me a perfect deal of ill will at the mansion you wots of, whose lady is the argument of it: where now I am the welcom'st thing under a man that comes there. I think, and above a man too, if the truth were racked out of you. No faith, I'll confess before, sir. The gentlewomen play with me, and throw me o' the bed; and carry me in to my lady; and she kisses me with her oiled face; and puts a peruke o' my head; and asks mean ' I will wear her gown; and I say, no: and then she hits me a blow o'the ear, and calls me innocent, and lets me go.
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)
TRuth sayes, of old, the art of making plaies Was to content the people; & their praise Was to the Poet money, wine, and bayes. But in this age, a sect of writers are, That, onely, for particular likings care, And will taste nothing that is populare. With such we mingle neither braines, nor brests; Our wishes, like to those (make publique feasts) Are not to please the cookes tastes, but the guests. Yet, if those cunning palates hether come, They shall find guests entreaty, and good roome; And though all relish not, sure, there will be some, That, when they leaue their seates, shall make 'hem say, Who wrot that piece, could so haue wroten a play: But that, he knew, this was the better way. For, to present all custard, or all tart, And haue no other meats, to beare a part, Or to want bread, and salt, were but course art. The Poet prayes you then, with better thought To sit; and, when his cares are all in brought, Though there be none far fet, there will deare-bought Be sit for ladies: some for lords, knights, squires, Some for your waiting wench, and citie-wires, Some for your men, and daughters of White-Friars. Nor is it, onely, while you keepe your seate Here, that his feast will last; but you shall eate A weeke at ord'naries, on his broken meat: If his Muse be true, Who commends her to you. THe ends of all, who for the Scene doe write, Are, or should be, to profit, and delight. And still't hath beene the praise of all best times, So persons were not touch'd, to taxe the crimes. Then, in this play, which we present to night, And make the obiect of your eare, and sight, On forfeit of your selues, thinke nothing true: Lest so you make the maker to iudge you. For he knowes, Poet neuer credit gain'd By writing truths, but things (like truths) well fain'd. If any, yet, will (with particular slight Of application) wrest what he doth write; And that he meant or him, or her, will say: They make a libell, which he made a play. HA' you got the song yet perfect I ga'you, boy? Yes, sir. Let me heare it. You shall, sir, but i' faith let no body else. Why, I pray? It will get you the dangerous name of a Poet in towne, sir, besides me a perfect deale of ill will at the mansion you wot of, whose ladie is the argument of it: where now I am the welcom'st thing vnder a man that comes there. I thinke, and aboue a man too, if the truth were rack'd out of you. No faith, I'll confesse before, sir. The gentlewomen play with me, and throw me o' the bed; and carry me in to my lady; and shee kisses me with her oil'd face; and puts a perruke o' my head; and askes mean' I will weare her gowne; and I say, no: and then she hits me a blow o'the eare, and calls me innocent, and lets me goe.