Neptune's Triumph for the Return of Albion · chunk 2 of 4
Jonson, Ben · published 1624 · first performed or written 1624 [Jan 6 (projected)] (Annals) masque · before the Court unassigned nearest T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe · 518 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
Your prime Masquers? Yes. But where's your Antimasque now, all this while? I harken after them. Faith, we have none. None? None, I assure you, neither do I think them A worthy part of presentation, Being things so heterogene, to all device, Mere By-works, and at best Outlandish nothings. O, you are all the heaven awry! Sir. For blood of Poetry, running in your veins, Make not yourself so ignorantly simple. Because Sir, you shall see I am a Poet, No less than Cook, and that I find you want A special service here, an Antimasque, I'll fit you with a dish out of the Kitchen, Such, as I think, will take the present palates, A metaphorical dish! And, do but mark, How a good wit may jump with you. Are you ready, Child? (Had there been Mask, or no Mask, I had made it.) Child of the boiling house. Here, Father. Bring forth the pot. It is an Olla Podrida, But I have persons, to present the meats. Persons! Such as do relish nothing, but di stato, (But in another fashion, than you dream of) Know all things the wrong way, talk of the affairs, The clouds, the cortines, and the mysteries That are afoot, and, from what hands they have 'em (The master of the Elephant, or the Camels) What correspondences are held; the Posts That go, & come, and know, almost, their minutes, All but their business: Therein, they are fishes. But ha' their garlic, as the Proverb says, They are our Quest of enquiry, after news. Together with their learned Authors? Yes Sir, And of the Epicoene gender, he's, and she's: Amphibion Archy is the chief. Good boy! The Child is learned too. Note but the Kitchen. Have you put him, into the pot, for Garlic? One in his coat, shall stink as strong as he, Sir, And his friend Giblets with him. They are two, That give a part of the seasoning. I conceive The way of your gallimaufry. You will like it, When they come pouring out of the pot together. O, if the pot had been big enough! What then, Child? I had put in the Elephant, and one Camel, at least, for beef. But, whom ha' you for Partridge? A brace of dwarfs, and delicate plump birds! And whom for Mutton, and Kid? A fine laced Mutton, Or two; and either has her frisking Husband: That reads her the corantoes, every week. Grave Mr Ambler, News-master of Paul's, Supplies your Capon; and grown Captain Buz (His Emissary) underwrites for Turkey, A Gentleman of the Forest presents Pheasant, And a plump poulterer's wife, in grace's street, Plays Hen with eggs i'the belly, or a coney, Choose which you will. But, where's the Bacon, Thom? Hogrel the Butcher, and the Sow his wife, Are both there. It is well, go, dish 'em out. Are they well boiled? Podrida! What's that? rotten? O, that they must be. There's one main ingredient We have forgot, the Artichoke. No Sir. I have a fruiterer, with a cold red nose, Like a blue fig, performs it.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Your prime Masquers? Yes. But where's your Antimasque now, all this while? I hearken after them. Faith, we haue none. None? None, I assure you, neither do I think them A worthy part of presentation, Being things so heterogene, to all deuise, Meere By-works, and at best Out-landish nothings. O, you are all the heauen awrie! Sir. For blood of Poetry, running in your veines, Make not your selfe so ignorantly simple. Bycause Sir, you shall see I am a Poet, No lesse then Cooke, and that I find you want A speciall service here, an Antimasque, Ile fit you with a dish out of the Kitchin, Such, as I thinke, will take the present palates, A metaphoricall dish! And, do but mark, How a good wit may iump with you. Are you ready, Child? (Had there bin Maske, or no Maske, I had made it.) Child of the boyling house. Here, Father. Bring forth the pot. It is an Olla Podrida, But I haue persons, to present the meates. Persons! Such as doe relish nothing, but di stato, (But in another fashion, then you dreame of) Know all things the wrong way, talk of the affaires, The clouds, the cortines, and the mysteries That are afoot, and, frō what hands they haue 'hem (The master of the Elephant, or the Camels) What correspondences are held; the Posts That go, & come, and know, almost, their minutes, All but their businesse: Therein, they are fishes. But ha' their garlick, as the Prouerb sayes, They are our Quest of enquiry, after newes. Together with their learned Authors? Yes Sir, And of the Epicoene gender, Hees, and Shees: Amphibion Archy is the chiefe. Good boy! The Child is learned too. Note but the Kitchin. Haue you put him, into the pot, for Garlick? One in his coate, shall stinke as strong as he, Sir, And his friend Giblets with him. They are two, That giue a part of the seasoning. I conceiue The way of your Gally-mawfrey. You will like it, When they come powring out of the pot together. O, if the pot had been big enough! What then, Child? I had put in the Elephant, and one Camell, at least, for Biefe. But, whom ha' you for Partrich? A brace of Dwarfes, and delicate plump birds! And whom for Mutton, and Kid? A fine lac'd Mutton, Or two; and either has her frisking Husband: That reades her the Corrantos, euery weeke. Graue Mr Ambler, Newes-master of Poules, Supplies your Capon; and growne Captaine Buz (His Emissary) vnderwrites for Turky, A Gentleman of the Forrest presents Phesant, And a plump Poultrers wife, in Graces street, Playes Hen with egges i'the belly, or a Cony, Choose which you will. But, where's the Bacon, Thom? Hogrel the Butcher, and the Sow his wife, Are both there. It is well, go, dish 'hem out. Are they well boyld? Podrida! What's that? rotten? O, that they must be. There's one maine ingredient We haue forgot, the Artichoke. No Sir. I haue a Fruicterer, with a cold red nose, Like a blue fig, performes it.