Jonson, Ben · published 1620 · first performed or written 1609 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Queen's Revels T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.79 · 451 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.
TRuth says, of old, the art of making Plays Was to content the people; and their praise Was to the Poet money, wine, and bays. But in this age, a sect of Writers are, That, only, for particular likings care, And will taste nothing that is popular. With such we mingle neither brains, nor breasts; Our wishes, like to those (make public feasts) Are not to please the Cooks 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 wrote 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 Cates are all in brought, Though there be none far fet, there will dear-bought Be fit 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 still 't hath been the praise of all best times, So persons were not touched, to tax the crimes. Then, in this Play, which we present tonight, 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) wrest 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 nobody else. Why, I pay? 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 wot 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.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 0–49 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 1 of 52 in this edition
Length
451 words · 610 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T9 — Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playerscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.792 (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)
TRuth ſayes, of old, the art of making Playes Was to content the people; and their prayſe 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 braynes, nor breſts; Our wiſhes, like to thoſe (make publike feaſts) Are not to pleaſe the Cookes taſtes, but the gueſts. Yet, if thoſe cunning palates hether come, They ſhall find gueſts entreatie, and good roome; And though all relliſh not, ſure, there will be ſome, That, when they leaue their ſeates, ſhall make 'hem ſay, Who wrote that piece, could ſo haue wrote 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 Cates are all in brought, Though there be none farre fet, there will deare-bought Be fit for Ladies: ſome for Lords, Knights, Squires, Some for your waiting wench, and Citie-wires, Some for your men, and daughters of White-Fryars. Nor is it, onely, while you keepe your ſeate Here, that his feaſt will laſt; but you ſhall eate A weeke at Ord'narie, on his broken meate: 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 prayſe of all beſt times, So perſons were not touch'd, to taxe the crimes. Then, in this Play, which we preſent tonight, 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'ſaith let no body elſe. Why, I pay? 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 think, and aboue a man too, if the truth were rack'd out of you.