If It Be Not Good, the Devil Is in It (If This Be Not a Good Play, the Devil Is in It) · chunk 1 of 44
Dekker, Thomas · published 1612 · first performed or written 1611 [1611-1612] (Annals) comedy · Queen Anne's Men · Red Bull T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.71 · 483 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
WOuld 'twere a Custom that at all newplays The Makers sat o'th', Stage, either with bays To have their Works Crowned, or beaten in with Hissing, Pied and bold Idiots, durst not then sit Kissing A muse's cheek: Shame would base Changelings wean, From Sucking the mellifluous Hypocrene: Who write as blind-men shoot, by (Hap, not Aim,) So, Fools by lucky Throwing, oft win the Game. Phoebus has many Bastards, True Sons few, I mean of those, whose quick clear eyes can view. Poesy's pure Essence, It being so divine, That the sun's Fires, (even when they brightest shine) Or Lightning, when most subtly love does spend it, May as soon be approached, weighed, touched, or comprehended. But 'tis with Poets now, as 'tis with Nations, th'ill-favouredst Vices, are the bravest Fashions. A Play whose Rudeness, Indians would abhor, I●t fill a house with Fish wives, Rare, They All Roar. It is not Praise is sought for (Now) but Pence, Though dropped, from Greasy-apron Audience. clapped may he be with Thunder, that plucks bays, With such Foul Hands, & with Squint-Eyes does gaze On Pallas Shield; not caring (so he Gains, A Cra●d Third-Day, what Filth drops from his Brains. Let Those that love Pan's pipe, dance still to Pan, They shall but get long Ears by it: Give me That Man, Who when the Plague of an impostumed Brains (Breaking out) infects a Theater, and hotly reigns, Killing the Hearers hearts, that the vast rooms Stand empty, like so many deadman's tombs, Can call the Banished Auditor home, And tie His Ear (with golden chains) to his Melody: Can draw with Adamantine Pen, (even creatures Forged out of th'Hammer, on tiptoe, to Reach up, And (from Rare silence) clap their Brawny hands, T'Applaud, what their charmed soul scarce understands. That Man give me; whose Breast filled by the Muses, With Raptures, Into a second, them infuses: Can give an Actor, Sorrow, Rage, joy, Passion, Whilst he again (by self-same Agitation) Commands the Hearers, sometimes drawing out Tears, Then smiles, and fills them both with Hopes & Fears. That Man give me: And to be such-a-One, Our Poet (this day) strives, or to be None: Lend not (Him) hands for Pity, but for Merit, If he Please, he's Crowned, if Not, his Fate must bear it. H! So. What so. I'll be thy slave no longer. What slave? hell's drudge, her Galleyslave. I ha' wore, My flesh toth' bones, bones marrowless, at the Oaer Tugging to waft to'thy Stygian empire, Souls, Which (but for Charon) never had come in shoals, Yet (swarmed they near so,) them on shore I set, Hell gets by Charon, what does Charon get? His Fare. Scurvy fare, i'll first cry garlic. Do: And make hell stink, as that does hither. If I do! Some like that smell, my boat to shore i'll pull; Not work a stroke more.
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)
WOuld 'were a Custome that at all New-playes The Makers sat o'th, Stage, either with Bayes To haue their Workes Crownd, or beatē in with Hissing, Pied and bold Ideotes, durst not then sit Kissing A Muses cheeke: Shame would base Changelings weane, From Sucking the mellifluous Hypocrene: Who write as blinde-men shoote, by (Hap, not Ayme,) So, Fooles by lucky Throwing, oft win the Game. Phoebus has many Bastards, True Sonnes ewe, I meane of those, whose quicke cleare eyes can viewe. Poesis pure Essence, It being so diuine, That the Suns Fires, (euen when they brightest shine) Or Lightning, when most subtillie loue does spend it, May as soone be approchd, weyed, touchd, or comprehēded. But tis with Poets now, as tis with Nations, Thil-fauouredst Vices, are the brauest Fashions. A Play whose Rudenes, Indians would abhorre, It fill a house with Fish wiues, Rare, They All Roare. It is not Praise is sought for (Now) but Pence, Tho dropd, from Greasie-apron Audience. Clapd may he bee with Thunder, that plucks Bayes, With such Foule Hands, & with Squint-Eyes does gaze On Pallas Shield; not caring (so hee Gaines, A Crad Third-Day, what Filth drops frō his Braines. Let Those that lou Pans pipe, daunce still to Pan, They shall but get ong Eares by it: Giue me That Man, Who when the Plague of an Impostumd Braynes (Breaking out) inects a Theater, and hotly raignes, Killing the Harers hearts, that the vast roomes Stand empty, like so many Dead-mens oombes, Can call the Banishd Auditor home, And tye His Eare (with golden chaines) to his Melody: Can draw with Adamantine Pen, (euen creatures Forg'de out of th'Hammer, on tiptoe, to Reach vp, And (from Rre silence) clap their Brawny hands, T'Applaud, what their charmd soule scarce vnderstands. That Man giue mee; whose Brest fill'd by the Muses, With Raptures, Into a second, them infuses: Can giue an Actor, Sorrow, Rage, Ioy, Passion, Whilst hee againe (by selfe-same Agitation) Commands the Hearers, sometimes drawing out Teares, Then smiles, and fills them both with Hopes & Feares. That Man giue mee: And to bee such-a-One, Our Poet (is day) striues, or to bee None: Lend not (Him) hands for Pittie, but for Merit, If he Please, hee's Crownd, if Not, his Fate must bare it. H! So. What so. Ile be thy slaue no longer. Wha slaue? Hels drudge, her Gally-slaue. I ha'wore, My flsh toth' bones, bones marrowles, at the Oaer Tugging to waft to'thy Stygian empire, Soules, Which (but for Charon) neuer had come in Sholes, Yet (swarmde they nere so,) them on shore I set, Hell gets by Charon, what does Charon get? His Fare. Scuruy fare, ile first cry garlick. Doe: And make hel stinck, as that does hither. If I doe! Some like that smell, my boate to shore ile pull; Not worke a stroake more.