Jonson, Ben · published 1631 · first performed or written 1626 [Feb] (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 466 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
They never lie, Sir, between meals, 'gainst supper You may have a Bale or two brought in. This Canter, Is an old envious Knave! A very Rascal! I ha' marked him all this meal, he has done nothing But mock, with scurvy faces, all we said. A supercilious Rogue! he looks as if He were the Patrico— Or Archpriest o' Canters, he's some primate metropolitan Rascal, Our shot-clog makes so much of him. The Law, And he does govern him What say you, Gentlemen? We say, we wonder not, your man o' Law, Should be so gracious wi'you; but how it comes, This Rogue, this Canter! O, good words. A fellow That speaks no language— But what gingling Gipsies, And Pedlar's trade in— And no honest Christian Can understand— Why? by that argument, You all are Canters, you, and you, and you, All the whole world are Canters, I will prove it In your professions. I would feign hear this, But stay, my Princess comes, provide the while, I'll call for't anon. How fares your Grace? I hope the fare was good. Yes, Lickfinger, And we shall thank you for't and reward you. Nay, I'll not loose my argument, Lickfinger; Before these Gentlemen, I affirm, The perfect, and true strain of poetry, Is rather to be given the quick Cellar, Than the fat Kitchin. Heretic, I see Thou art for the vain Oracle of the Bottle. The hogshead, Trismegistus, is thy Pegasus. Thence flows thy Muse's spring, from that hard hoof▪ Seduced Poet, I do say to thee, A Boiler, Range, and Dresser were the Fountains, Of all the knowledge in the universe. And they ' are the Kitchens, where the Master-cook— (Thou dost not know the man, nor canst thou know him, Till thou hast served some years in that deep school, That's both the Nurse and Mother of the Arts, And hearest him read, interpret, and demonstrate!) A Master-cook! Why, he's the man o' men, For a Professor! he designs, he draws, He paints, he carves, he builds, he fortifies, Makes Citadels of curious fowl and fish, Some he dry-dishes, some motes round with broths. Mounts marrowbones, cuts fifty angled custards, Rears bulwark pies, and for his outerworks He raiseth Ramparts of immortal crust; And teacheth all the Tactics, at one dinner: What Ranks, what Files, to put his dishes in; The whole Art Military. Than he knows, The influence of the Stars upon his meats, And all their seasons, tempers, qualities, And so to fit his relishes, and sauces, He has Nature in a pot, 'boue all the Chemists, Or airy brethrens of the Rosie-crosse. He is an Architect, an Engineer, A Soldier, a Physician, a Philosopher, A general Mathematician. It is granted. And that you may not doubt him, for a Poet—
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)
They neuer lie, Sir, betweene meales, 'gainſt ſupper You may haue a Bale or two brought in. This Canter, Is an old enuious Knaue! A very Raſcall! I ha' mark'd him all this meale, he has done nothing But mocke, with ſcuruy faces, all wee ſaid. A ſupercilious Rogue! he lookes as if He were the Patrico— Or Arch-prieſt o'Canters, Hee's ſome primate metropolitan Raſcall, Our ſhot-clog makes ſo much of him. The Law, And he does gouerne him What ſay you, Gentlemen? We ſay, we wonder not, your man o' Law, Should be ſo gracious wi'you; but how it comes, This Rogue, this Canter! O, good words. A fellow That ſpeakes no language— But what gingling Gipſies, And Pedlers trade in— And no honeſt Chriſtian Can vnderſtand— Why? by that argument, You all are Canters, you, and you, and you, All the whole world are Canters, I will proue it In your profeſsions. I would faine heare this, But ſtay, my Princeſſe comes, prouide the while, I'll call for't anone. How fares your Grace? I hope the fare was good. Yes, Lickfinger, And we ſhall thanke you for't and reward you. Nay, I'll not loſe my argument, Lickfinger; Before theſe Gentlemen, I affirme, The perfect, and true ſtraine of poetry, Is rather to be giuen the quicke Celler, Then the fat Kitchin. Heretique, I ſee Thou art for the vaine Oracle of the Botle. The hogſhead, Triſmegiſtus, is thy Pegaſus. Thence flowes thy Muſes ſpring, from that hard hoofe▪ Seduced Poet, I doe ſay to thee, A Boyler, Range, and Dreſſer were the Fountaines, Of all the knowledge in the vniuerſe. And they 'are the Kitchins, where the Maſter-Cooke— (Thou doſt not know the man, nor canſt thou know him, Till thou haſt ſeru'd ſome yeeres in that deepe ſchoole, That's both the Nurſe and Mother of the Arts, And hear'ſt him read, interpret, and demonſtrate!) A Maſter-Cooke! Why, he's the man o' men, For a Profeſſor! he deſignes, he drawes, He paints, he carues, he builds, he fortifies, Makes Citadels of curious fowle and fiſh, Some he dri-diſhes, ſome motes round with broths. Mounts marrowbones, cuts fifty angled cuſtards, Reares bulwark pies, and for his outerworkes He raiſeth Ramparts of immortall cruſt; And teacheth all the Tacticks, at one dinner: What Rankes, what Files, to put his diſhes in; The whole Art Military. Then he knowes, The influence of the Starres vpon his meats, And all their ſeaſons, tempers, qualities, And ſo to fit his reliſhes, and ſauces, He has Nature in a pot, 'boue all the Chymiſts, Or airy brethren of the Roſie-croſſe. He is an Architect, an Inginer, A Souldiour, a Phyſician, a Philoſopher, A generall Mathematician. It is granted. And that you may not doubt him, for a Poet—