Time Vindicated to Himself and to His Honors · chunk 2 of 6
Jonson, Ben · published 1623 · first performed or written 1623 [Jan 19] (Annals) masque · before the Court unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 512 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
Then I will look on Time, and love the same, And drop my whip: who's this! my Mistress! Fame! The Lady whom I honour, and adore! What luck had I not to see her before! Pardon me, Madam, more than most accursed, That did not spy your Ladyship at first, To ' have given the stoop, and to salute the skirts Of her, to whom all Ladies else are flirts! It is for you, I revel so in rhyme, Dear Mistress, not for hope I have the Time Will grow the better by it. To serve Fame Is all my end, and get myself a name. Away I know thee not, wretched Impostor, Creature of glory, Mountebank of wit, Self-loving Braggart, Fame doth sound no trumpet To such vain, empty fools: 'Tis infamy Thou servest, and follow'st, scorn of all the Muses, Go revel with thine ignorant admirers, Let worthy names alone. O, you the Curious, Breath you to see a passage so injurious, Done with despite, and carried with such tumour 'Gainst me, that am so much the friend of rumour? (I would say Fame?) whose Muse hath rid in rapture On a soft ambling verse to every capture, From the strong guard, to the weak child that reads me, And wonder both of him that loves, or dread's me! Who with the lash of my immortal pen Have scourged all sorts of vices, and of men! Am I rewarded, thus? have I, I say, From Envy's self torn praise, and bays away, With which my glorious front, and word at large, Triumphs in print at my admirers charge. Rare! how he talks in verse, just as he writes! When have I walked the streets, but happy he That had the finger first to point at me, Apprentice, or journeyman! The shop doth know it! The unlettered Clerk! maior and minor Poet! The Sempster hath sat still as I passed by, And dropped her needle! Fishwives stayed their cry! The Boy with buttons, and the Basket wench To vent their wares, into my works do trench! A pudding-wife, that would despise the Times, Hath uttered ' frequent pen ' worths, through my rhymes, And, with them, dived into the Chambermaid, And she unto her Lady hath conveyed The seasoned morsels, who hath sent me pensions, To cherish and to heighten my inventions. Well, Fame shall know it yet, I have my faction, And friends about me, though it please detraction To do me this affront. Come forth that love me, And now, or never, spite of Fame, approve me. How now! what's here? Is hell broke lose? You'll see. That he has favourers, Fame, and great ones too, That unctuous Bounty, is the Buff of Belins-gate, Who feasts his Muse with claret wine, and oysters, Grows big with satire, Goes as long as an Elephant: She labours, and lies in of his inventions, Has a male poem in her belly now, Big as a colt, That kicks at Time already, And is no sooner foald, but will neigh sulphur: The next?
seed 43: T13 · seed 44: T16 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Then I will looke on Time, and loue the ſame, And drop my whip: who's this! my Miſtris! Fame! The Lady whom I honor, and adore! What lucke had I not to ſee her before! Pardon me, Madam, more then moſt accurſt, That did not ſpie your Ladiſhip at firſt, To' haue giu'n the ſtoop, and to ſalute the skirts Of her, to whom all Ladies elſe are flirts! It is for you, I reuell ſo in rime, Deare Miſtris, not for hope I haue the Time Will growe the better by it. To ſerue Fame Is all my end, and get my ſelfe a name. Away I know thee not, wretched Impoſtor, Creature of glory, Mountebanke of witt, Selfe-louing Braggart, Fame doth ſound no trumpett To ſuch vaine, empty fooles: 'Tis infamy Thou ſeru'ſt, and follow'ſt, ſcorne of all the Muſes, Goe reuell with thine ignorant admirers, Let worthy names alone. O, you the Curious, Breath you to ſee a paſſage ſo iniurious, Done with deſpight, and carried with ſuch tumor 'Gainſt me, that am ſo much the freind of rumor? (I would ſay Fame?) whoſe Muſe hath rid in rapture On a ſoft ambling verſe to euery capture, From the ſtrong guard, to the weake child that reads me, And wonder both of him that loues, or dread's me! Who with the laſh of my immortall pen Haue ſcourg'd all ſorts of vices, and of men! Am I rewarded, thus? haue I, I ſay, From Enuies ſelfe torne praiſe, and bayes away, With which my glorious front, and word at large, Triumphs in print at my admirers charge. Rare! how he talkes in verſe, iuſt as he writes! When haue I walk't the ſtreetes, but happy he That had the finger firſt to point at mee, Prentice, or Iourneyman! The ſhop doth know it! The vnletter'd Clarke! maior and minor Poet! The Sempſter hath ſate ſtill as I paſs'd by, And dropt her needle! Fiſhwiues ſtaid their cry! The Boy with buttons, and the Basket wench To vent their wares, into my workes do trench! A pudding-wife, that would deſpiſe the Times, Hath vtterd' frequent pen' worths, through my rimes, And, with them, diu'd into the Chamber-maid, And ſhee vnto her Lady hath convayd The ſeaſond morſels, who hath ſent me penſions, To cheriſh and to heighten my inuentions. Well, Fame ſhall know it yet, I haue my faction, And freinds about me, though it pleaſe detraction To do me this affront. Come forth that loue me, And now, or neuer, ſpite of Fame, approue me. How now! what's here? Is hell broke looſe? You'l ſee. That he ha's fauourers, Fame, and great ones too, That vnctuous Bounty, is the Boffe of Belinſgate, Who feaſts his Muſe with claret wine, and oyſters, Growes big with Satyr, Goes as long as an Elephant: She labours, and lies in of his inuentions, Ha's a male poem in her belly now, Big as a colt, That kicks at Time already, And is no ſooner foald, but will neigh ſulphure: The next?