Time Vindicated to Himself and to His Honors · chunk 2 of 6
Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1623 [Jan 19] (Annals) masque · before the Court unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 507 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
Than 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, T'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 Envies 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! mayor 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 pennyworths, 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 Boss 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: unassigned — 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 love the ſame, And drop my whip: who's this! my Miſtris! Fame! The lady whom I honour, and adore! What lucke had I not to ſee her before! Pardon me, Madam, more than moſt accurſt, That did not ſpie your Ladiſhip at firſt, T'have giv'n the ſtoop, and to ſalute the skirts Of her, to whom all Ladies elſe are flirts! It is for you, I revell ſo in rime, Deare Miſtris, not for hope I have the Time Will grow the better by it. To ſerve Fame Is all my end, and get my ſelfe a name. Away, I know thee not, wretched Impoſtor, Creature of glory, Mountebanke of witte, Selfe-loving Braggart, Fame doth ſound no trumpet To ſuch vaine, empty fooles: 'Tis Infamy Thou ſerv'ſt, and follow'ſt, ſcorne of all the Muſes, Goe revell with thine ignorant admirers, Let worthy names alone. O, you the Curious, Breath you to ſee a paſſage ſo injurious, Done with deſpight, and carried with ſuch tumor 'Gainſt me, that am ſo much the friend of rumor? (I would ſay Fame?) whoſe Muſe hath rid in rapture On a ſoft ambling verſe to every capture, From the ſtrong guard, to the weake childe that reades me, And wonder both of him that loves, or dread's me! Who with the laſh of my immortall pen Have ſcourg'd all ſorts of vices, and of men! Am I rewarded, thus? have I, I ſay, From Envies 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, juſt as he writes! When have I walk't the ſtreets, but happy he That had the finger firſt to point at mee, Prentice, or Journeyman! The ſhop doth know it! The unletter'd Clarke! major and minor Poet! The Sempſter hath ſate ſtill as I paſs'd by, And dropt her needle! Fiſh-wives 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 utter'd frequent pen'worths, through my rimes, And, with them, div'd into the Chamber-maid, And ſhe unto her Lady hath convay'd The ſeaſon'd 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 doe me this affront. Come forth that love me, And now, or never, ſpight of Fame, approve me. How now! what's here? Is hell broke looſe? You'l ſee. That he ha's favourers, Fame, and great ones too. That unctuous Bounty, is the Boſſe of Belinſgate, Who feaſts his Muſe with claret wine, and oyſters, Growes big with Satyre; Goes as long as an Elephant: She labours, and lies in of his inventions, 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?