Randolph, Thomas · published 1632 · first performed or written 1632 [Mar 20] (Annals) comedy · before the Court T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.70 · 505 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
Then skull (although thou be a captain's skull) I say thou art a coward,— and no Gentleman; Thy mother was a whore,— and thou liest in thy throat. Do not, live hare, pull the dead lion's beard. No, good Hyperbolus, I but make a jest To show my reading in morality. Do not the ashes of deceased Poets Inspired with sacred fury, carol forth Enthusiastic raptures? Dost not hear 'em Sing mysteries, and talk of things concealed The rest of mortal judgements? Dost not see Apollo and the Muses every night Dance rings about their tombs? Do not roses, Lilies, and violets grow upon their graves? Shoots not the laurel that impaled their brows Into a tree, to shadow their blessed marble? Do they not rise out of their shrowds to read Their Epitaphs? and if they like 'em not, Expunge 'em, and write new ones? Do they not Roar in caliginous terms, and vapour forth From reeking entrails fogs Egyptian, To puzzle even an oculate intellect? Prate they not cataracts of insensible noise, That with obstreperous cadence cracks the organs Acroamatick, till the deaf auditor Admires the words he hears not? This was a poetical noddle. O the sweet lines, choice language, eloquent figures, besides the jests, half jests, quarter jests, and quibbles that have come out o'these chaps that yawn so! He has not now so much as a new-coined-compliment to procure him a supper. The best friend he has may walk by him now, and yet have ne'er a jeer put upon him. His mistress had a little dog deceased the other day, and all the wit in this noddle could not pump out an Elegy to bewail it. He has been my tenant this seven years, and in all that while I never heard him rail against the times, or complain of the neglect of learning. Melpomene and the rest of the Muses have a good time on't that he is dead: for while he lived, he ne'er left calling upon 'em. He was buried (as most of the tribe) at the charge of the parish, and is happier dead than alive: for he has now as much money as the best in the company,— and yet has left off the poetical way of begging, called Borrowing. I scorn thy Lyric and Heroic strain, Thy tart iambic, and satiric vein. Where be thy quirks and tricks? show me again The strange conundrums of thy frisking brain, Thou poet's skull, and say, What's time to chimney? Alas! Sir, you ha' posed him: he cannot speak to give you an answer, though his mouth be always open. A man may safely converse with him now, and never fear stifling in a crowd of verses. And now a Play of his may be freely censured, without a libel upon the audience. The boys may be bold to cry it down. I cannot yet contrive it handsomely. methinks the darkness of the night should prompt me To a plot of that complexion.— Ruminate, Ruminate Ballio.
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)
Then skull (although thou be a captains skull) I say thou art a coward, —and no Gentleman; Thy mother was a whore,—and thou liest in thy throat. Do not, live hare, pull the dead lions beard. No, good Hyperbolus, I but make a jest To show my reading in moralitie. Do not the ashes of deceased Poets Inspir'd with sacred fury, carroll forth Enthusiastick raptures? Dost not heare 'um Sing mysteries, and talk of things conceal'd The rest of mortall judgements? Dost not see Apollo and the Muses every night Dance rings about their tombes? Do not roses, Lilies, and violets grow upon their graves? Shoots not the laurell that impal'd their brows Into a tree, to shadow their blest marble? Do they not rise out of their shrowds to read Their Epitaphs? and if they like 'um not, Expunge 'um, and write new ones? Do they not Rore in caliginous terms, and vapour forth From reeking entrals fogs Egyptian, To puzzle even an oculate intellect? Prate they not cataracts of insensible noise, That with obstreperous cadence cracks the organs Acroamatick, till the deaf auditor Admires the words he heares not? This was a poeticall noddle. O the sweet lines, choice language, eloquent figures, besides the jests, half jests, quarter jests, and quibbles that have come out o'these chaps that yawn so! He has not now so much as a new-coyn'd-complement to procure him a supper. The best friend he has may walk by him now, and yet have ne're a jeere put upon him. His mistresse had a little dog deceased the other day, and all the wit in this noddle could not pump out an Elegie to bewail it. He has been my tenant this seven yeares, and in all that while I never heard him rail against the times, or complain of the neglect of learning. Melpomene and the rest of the Muses have a good time on't that he is dead: for while he lived, he ne're left calling upon 'um. He was buried (as most of the tribe) at the charge of the parish, and is happier dead then alive: for he has now as much money as the best in the company,—and yet has left off the poeticall way of begging, call'd Borrowing. I scorn thy Lyrick and Heroick strain, Thy tart Iambick, and Satyrick vein. Where be thy querks and tricks? show me again The strange conundrums of thy frisking brain, Thou Poets skull, and say, What's time to chimney? Alas! Sir, you ha' pos'd him: he cannot speak to give you an answer, though his mouth be alwayes open. A man may safely converse with him now, and never fear stifling in a crowd of verses. And now a Play of his may be freely censur'd, without a libel upon the audience. The boyes may be bold to cry it down. I cannot yet contrive it handsomely. Me thinks the darknesse of the night should prompt me To a plot of that complexion. —Ruminate, Ruminate Ballio.