Time Vindicated to Himself and to His Honors · chunk 3 of 6
Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1623 [Jan 19] (Annals) masque · before the Court T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.70 · 521 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.
A quondam Justice, that of late Hath been discarded out o'the pack o'the peace, For some lewd levity he holds in capite, But constantly loves him. In days of yore, He used to give the charge out of his poems, He carries him about him, in his pocket, As Philip's Son did Homer, in a casket, And cries, O happy Man, to the wrong party, Meaning the Poet, where he meant the subject: What are this pair? The ragged rascals? Yes. Mere rogues, you'd think them rogues, but they are friends, One is his Printer in disguise, and keeps His press in a hollow tree, where to conceal him, He works by glow-worm light, the moon's too open. The other zealous rag is the Compositor, Who in an angle, where the aunts inhabit, (The emblem's of his labours) will sit curled Whole days, and nights, and work his eyes out for him. Strange arguments of love! There is a Schoolmaster Is turning all his works too, into Latin, To pure Satyric Latin; makes his Boys To learn him; calls him the times Juvenal; Hangs all his School with his sharp sentences; And o'er the Execution place hath painted Time whipped, for terror to the Infantry. This Man of war, i'the rear, He is both Trumpet And Champion to his Muse. For the whole City. H'as him by rote, recites him at the tables, Where he doth govern; swears him into name, Upon his word, and sword, for the sole youth Dares make profession of Poetic truth, Now militant amongst us: To th'incredulous, That dagger is an article he uses, To rivet his respect into their pates, And make them faithful. Fame, you'll found you've wronged him. What a confederacy of Folly is here! Now Fame, how like you this? This falls upon you For your neglect. He scorns you, and defies you, H'as got a Fame on's own, as well as a Faction. And these will deify him, to despite you. I envy not the 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉. 'Twill prove but deifying of a Pompion. Well, what is that the Time will now exhibit? What gambols? what devises? what new sports? You promised us, we should have any thing. That Time would give us all we could imagine. You might imagine so, I never promised it. Pox, than 'tis nothing. I had now a fancy We might have talked o'the King. Or State. Or all the World. Censured the Counsel, e're they censure us. We do it in Paul's. Yes, and in all the taverns! A comely licence. They that censure those They aught to reverence, meet they that old curse, To beg their bread, and feel eternal Winter. there's difference 'twixt liberty, and licence. Why if it be not that, let it be this than (For since you grant us freedom, we will hold it,) Let's have the giddy world turned the heels upward, And sing a rare black Sanctus, on his head, Of all things out of order. Not, the Man I'the Moon dance a Coranto, his bush At's back, a fire; and his dog piping Lachrimae.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 142–212 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 3 of 6 in this edition
Length
521 words · 748 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T9 — Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playerscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.702 (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)
A quondam Juſtice, that of late Hath beene diſcarded out o'the pack o'the peace, For ſome lewd levitie he holds in capite, But conſtantly loves him. In dayes of yore, He us'd to give the charge out of his poems, He carries him about him, in his pocket, As Philip's Sonne did Homer, in a casket, And cries, O happy Man, to the wrong party, Meaning the Poet, where he meant the ſubject: What are this paire? The ragged raſcalls? Yes. Meere rogues, you'ld thinke them rogues, but they are friends, One is his Printer in diſguiſe, and keepes His preſſe in a hollow tree, where to conceale him, He workes by glow-worme light, the Moone's too open. The other zealous ragge is the Compoſitor, Who in an angle, where the ants inhabite, (The emblem's of his labours) will ſit curl'd Whole dayes, and nights, and worke his eyes out for him. Strange arguments of love! There is a Schoolemaſter Is turning all his workes too, into Latine, To pure Satyricke Latine; makes his Boyes To learne him; calls him the times Juvenal; Hangs all his Schoole with his ſharpe ſentences; And o're the Execution place hath painted Time whipt, for terror to the Infantery. This Man of warre, i'the rere, He is both Trumpet And Champion to his Muſe. For the whole City. H'as him by roat, recites him at the tables, Where he doth governe; ſweares him into name, Upon his word, and ſword, for the ſole youth Dares make profeſſion of Poetick truth, Now militant amongſt us: To th'incredulous, That dagger is an article he uſes, To rivet his reſpect into their pates, And make them faithful. Fame, you'l find you'ave wrongd him. What a confederacie of Folly is here! Now Fame, how like you this? This falls upon you For your neglect. He ſcornes you, and defies you, H'as got a Fame on's owne, as well as a Faction. And theſe will deifie him, to deſpite you. I envie not the . 'Twill prove but deifying of a Pompion. Well, what is that the Time will now exhibite? What gambols? what deviſes? what new ſports? You promis'd us, we ſhould have any thing. That Time would give us all we could imagine. You might imagine ſo, I never promis'd it. Pox, then 'tis nothing. I had now a fancie We might have talk'd o'the King. Or State. Or all the World. Cenſur'd the Counſell, e're they cenſure us. We doe it in Pauls. Yes, and in all the tavernes! A comely licence. They that cenſure thoſe They ought to reverence, meet they that old curſe, To beg their bread, and feele eternall Winter. Ther's difference 'twixt liberty, and licence. Why if it be not that, let it be this then (For ſince you grant us freedome, we will hold it,) Let's have the giddy world turn'd the heeles upward, And ſing a rare blacke Sanctus, on his head, Of all things out of order. No, the Man I'the Moone daunce a Corranto, his buſh At's backe, a fire; and his dogge piping Lachrimae.