Jonson, Ben · published 1631 · first performed or written 1626 [Feb] (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T35 Fools, wit and railing · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T35: fool, wit, aristippus, achilles, wise, fools, patroclus, thersites, master, men.
Thou, Prodigal, Was I so careful for thee, to procure, And plot wi' my learned Counsel, Master Picklock, This noble match for thee, and dost thou prostitute, Scatter thy Mistress favours, throw away Her bounties, as they were red-burning coals, Too hot for thee to handle, on such rascals? Who are the scum, and excrements of men? If thou hadst fought out good, and virtuous persons Of these professions: I'had loved thee, and them, For these shall never have that plea 'gainst me, Or colour of advantage, that I hate Their callings, but their manners, and their vices. A worthy Courtier, is the ornament Of a King's Palace, his great Master's honour. This is a moth, a rascal, a Court-rat, That gnaws the commonwealth with broking suits, And eating grievances! So, a true Soldier, He is his Country's strength, his Sovereign's safety, And to secure his peace, he makes himself. The heir of danger, nay the subject of it, And runs those virtuous hazards, that this Scarecrow Cannot endure to hear of. You are pleasant, Sir. With you I dare be! Here is Pied-mantle, 'Cause he's an Ass, do not I love a Herald? Who is the pure preserver of descents, The keeper fair of all Nobility, Without which all would run into confusion? Were he a learned Herald, I would tell him He can give Arms, and marks, he cannot honour, Not more than money can make Noble: It may Give place, and rank, but it can give no Virtue. And he would thank me, for this truth. This dog-leech, You style him Doctor, 'cause he can compile An Almanac; perhaps erect a Scheme For my great Madam's monkey: when it has ta'en A glister, and bewrayed the Ephemerideses. Do I despise a learned Physician? In calling him a Quacksalver? or blast The everliving garland, always green Of a good Poet? when I say his wreath Is pieced and patched of dirty withered flowers? Away, I am impatient of these ulcers, (That I not call you worse) There is no sore, Or Plague but you to infect the times. I abhor Your very scent. Come, Lady, since my Prodigal Knew not to entertain you to your worth, I'll see if I have learned, how to receive you, With more respect to you, and your fair train here. Farewell my Beggar in velvet, for to day, To morrow you may put on that grave Robe, And enter your great work of Canter's College, Your work and worthy of a Chronicle, Why? This was the worst of all! the Catastrophe! The matter began to be good, but now: and he has spoiled it all, with his Beggar there! A beggarly Iacke it is, I warrant him, and a kin to the Poet. Like enough, for he had the chiefest part in his play, if you mark it. Absurdity on him, for a huge overgrown Playmaker! why should he make him live again, when they, and we all thought him dead? If he had left him to his rags, there had been an end of him.
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)
Thou, Prodigall, Was I ſo carefull for thee, to procure, And plot wi' my learn'd Counſell, Maſter Picklocke, This noble match for thee, and doſt thou proſtitute, Scatter thy Mistreſſe fauours, throw away Her bounties, as they were red-burning coales, Too hot for thee to handle, on ſuch raſcalls? Who are the ſcumme, and excrements of men? If thou had'ſt fought out good, and vertuous perſons Of theſe profeſſions: I'had lou'd thee, and them, For theſe ſhall neuer haue that plea 'gainſt me, Or colour of aduantage, that I hate Their callings, but their manners, and their vices. A worthy Courtier, is the ornament Of a Kings Palace, his great Maſters honour. This is a moth, a raſcall, a Court-rat, That gnawes the common-wealth with broking ſuits, And eating grieuances! So, a true Souldier, He is his Countryes ſtrength, his Soueraignes ſafety, And to ſecure his peace, he makes himſelfe. The heyre of danger, nay the ſubiect of it, And runnes thoſe vertuous hazards, that this Scarre-crow Cannot endure to heare of. You are pleaſant, Sir. With you I dare be! Here is Pyed-mantle, 'Cauſe he's an Aſſe, doe not I loue a Herald? Who is the pure preſeruer of deſcents, The keeper faire of all Nobility, Without which all would runne into confuſion? Were he a learned Herald, I would tell him He can giue Armes, and markes, he cannot honour, No more then money can make Noble: It may Giue place, and ranke, but it can giue no Vertue. And he would thanke me, for this truth. This dog-Leach, You ſtile him Doctor, 'cauſe he can compile An Almanack; perhaps erect a Scheme For my great Madams monkey: when 't has ta'ne A gliſter, and bewrai'd the Ephemerides. Doe I deſpiſe a learn'd Phyſician? In calling him a Quack-Saluer? or blaſt The euer-liuing ghirlond, alwaies greene Of a good Poet? when I ſay his wreath Is piec'd and patch'd of dirty witherd flowers? Away, I am impatient of theſe vlcers, (That I not call you worſe) There is no ſore, Or Plague but you to infect the times. I abhorre Your very ſcent. Come, Lady, ſince my Prodigall Knew not to entertaine you to your worth, I'll ſee if I haue learn'd, how to receiue you, With more reſpect to you, and your faire traine here. Farewell my Begger in veluet, for to day, To morrow you may put on that graue Robe, And enter your great worke of Canters Colledge, Your worke and worthy of a Chronicle, Why? This was the worſt of all! the Cataſtrophe! The matter began to be good, but now: and he has ſpoyl'd it all, with his Begger there! A beggerly Iacke it is, I warrant him, and a kin to the Poet. Like enough, for hee had the chiefeſt part in his play, if you marke it. Abſurdity on him, for a huge ouergrowne Play-maker! why ſhould he make him liue againe, when they, and we all thought him dead? If he had left him to his ragges, there had beene an end of him.