Neptune's Triumph for the Return of Albion · chunk 3 of 6
Jonson, Ben · published 1641 · first performed or written 1624 [Jan 6 (projected)] (Annals) masque · before the Court unassigned nearest T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses · 471 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
But, why not this, till now? It was not time, To mix this Music with the vulgars' chime. Stay, till th'abortive, and extemporal din Of balladry, were understood a sin, Minerva cried: that, what tumultuous verse, Or prose could make, or steal, they might rehearse, And every Songster had sung out his fit; That all the Country, and the City-wit, Of bells, and bonfires, and good cheer was spent, And Neptune's Guard had drunk all that they meant; That all the tales and stories now were old Of the Sea-Monster Archy, or grown cold: The Muses than might venture, undeterred, For they love, than, to sing, when they are heard. I like it well, 'tis handsome: and I have Some thing would fit this. How do you present 'hem? In a fine Island, say you? Yes, a Delos: Such, as when fair Latona fell in travail, Great Neptune made emergent. I conceive you. I would have had your I'll brought floating in, now In a brave broth, and of a sprightly green, Just to the colour of the Sea; and than, Some twenty Sirens, singing in the kettle, With an Arion, mounted on the back Of a grown Conger, but in such a posture, As, all the world should take him for a Dolphin: O, 'twould ha'made such music! Ha'you nothing, But a bore Island? Yes, we have a tree too, Which we do call the Tree of Harmony, And is the same with what we read, the Sun, Brought forth in the Indian Musicana first, And thus it grows. The goodly bowl, being got To certain cubit's height, from every side The boughs decline, which taking root afresh, Spring up new boles, and those spring new, and newer, Till the whole tree become a Porticus, Or arched Arbour, able to receive A numerous troop, such as our Albion, And the Companions of his journey are. And this they sit in. 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 devise, Mere By-workes, 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, Not less than Cook, and that I found 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.
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)
But, why not this, till now? —It was not time, To mixe this Muſick with the vulgars chime. Stay, till th'abortive, and extemporall dinne Of balladry, were underſtood a ſinne, Minerva cry'd: that, what tumultuous verſe, Or proſe could make, or ſteale, they might rehearſe, And every Songſter had ſung out his fit; That all the Countrey, and the Citie-wit, Of bells, and bonfires, and good cheere was ſpent, And Neptunes Guard had drunke all that they meant; That all the tales and ſtories now were old Of the Sea-Monſter Archy, or growne cold: The Muſes then might venter, undeterr'd, For they love, then, to ſing, when they are heard. I like it well, 'tis handſome: and I have Some thing would fit this. How doe you preſent 'hem? In a fine Iland, ſay you? Yes, a Delus: Such, as when faire Latona fell in travaile, Great Neptune made emergent. I conceive you. I would have had your Ile brought floting in, now In a brave broth, and of a ſprightly greene, Juſt to the colour of the Sea; and then, Some twentie Syrens, ſinging in the kettel, With an Arion, mounted on the backe Of a growne Conger, but in ſuch a poſture, As, all the world ſhould take him for a Dolphin: O, 'twould ha'made ſuch muſick! Ha'you nothing, But a bare Iſland? Yes, we have a tree too, Which we doe call the Tree of Harmonie, And is the ſame with what we read, the Sunne, Brought forth in the Indian Muſicana firſt, And thus it growes. The goodly bole, being got To certaine cubits height, from every ſide The boughes decline, which taking roote afreſh, Spring up new boles, and thoſe ſpring new, and newer, Till the whole tree become a Porticus, Or arched Arbour, able to receive A numerous troupe, ſuch as our Albion, And the Companions of his journey are. And this they ſit in. Your prime Maſquers? Yes. But where's your Antimaſque now, all this while? I hearken after them. Faith, we have none. None? None, I aſſure you, neither doe I thinke them A worthy part of preſentation, Being things ſo heterogene, to all deviſe, Meere By-workes, and at beſt Out-landiſh nothings. O, you are all the heaven awrie! Sir. For blood of Poetry, running in your veines, Make not your ſelfe ſo ignorantly ſimple. Becauſe Sir, you ſhall ſee I am a Poet, No leſſe then Cooke, and that I find you want A ſpeciall ſervice here, an Antimaſque, I'le fit you with a diſh out of the Kitchin, Such, as I thinke, will take the preſent palates, A metaphoricall diſh! And, doe but marke, How a good wit may jumpe with you. Are you ready, Child? (Had there bin Maske, or no Maske, I had made it.) Child of the boyling houſe.