Rowley, William · published 1633 · first performed or written 1619 [c.1619-1620(?)] (Annals) tragedy · Prince Charles's Men (first) · Phoenix/Cockpit T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe typicality 0.74 · 477 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
THus from the Poet am I bid to say, He knows what judges sit to doom each Play, (The overcurious Critic, or the wise) The one with squint, tother with sunlike eyes, Shoots through each Scene: the one cry as all things down, Tother hides strangers faults close as his own. 'las! Those who out of custom come to gear, (Sang the full choir of the nine Muses here) So carping, not from wit, but apish spite, And feathered ignorance, thus our Poet does slight. 'tis not a gay suit, or distorted face, Can beat his merit off, which has won grace In the full Theater, nor can now fear The teeth of any snaky whisperer: But to the white, and sweet unclouded brow, (The heaven where true worth moves) our Poet does bow; Patrons of Arts, and Pilots to the Stage, Who guide it (through all tempests) from the rage Of envious whirl winds. O do you but steer His Muse this day, and bring her toth' wished shore, You are those Delphic powers, whom she'll adore. GIve leave: Lothario. My Sovereign. The news in brief: how replies Iacinta? Will she be woman? will she meet our Arms With an alternate roundure? will she do? Nothing to the purpose my Liege, cold as Aquarius, There she was borne, and there she still remains; I cannot move her to enter into Pisces, I Laid the flesh to her too, and the delights thereof, she leans Another way, and talks all of the spirit, I Frighted her with spirits too, but all would not do: She drew her knife, pointed it to her breast, swore She would do something, but women's tongues are Sometimes longer than their arms. Enough, we have bethought another way. This wooing application is too mild: 'Tis better trust the mercy of a storm. To haste our way, than to be calmed for ever, Short of the wished haven: Now draw near, you told us of a hot invasion, The barbarous and tawny Africans, Intend upon our confines. True, my Liege. Full threescore thousand are descried in Arms, Ready to pass the straits of Gibraltar, Whose watery divisions, their Afric bounds om our Christian Europe in Granado, And Andalusia; they spread and flourish Their silver moons, led as it is supposed, By some blind guide, some Saintish Infidel, That prophesy subjection of our Spain, Unto the Moores. They would deter us with their swarthy looks: Were they the same to their similitude, Sooty as the inhabitants of hell, Whom they nearest figure; cold fear should fly From us as distant as they are from beauty: They come to sacrifice their bloods to us, If that be red, a mere rubrum, we'll make so high to quench their silver moons; And on their carcases an Isthmus make To pass their straits again, and forage there.
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)
THus from the Poet am I bid to say, He knowes what Iudges sit to doome each Play, (The over-curious Criticke, or the wise) The one with squint, t'other with sunne-like eyes, Shootes through each Scaene: the one cryas all things downe, T'other hides strangers faults close as his owne. Las! Those who out of custome come to geere, (Sng the full quire of the nine Muses here) So carping, not from wit, but apish spite, And fetherdignorance, thus our Poet does slight. T'is not a gay sute, or distorted face, Can beate his merit off, which has wonne grace In the full Theater, nor can now feare The teeth of any snakie whisperer: But to the white, and sweet unclouded brow, (The heaven where true worth moves) our Poet does bow; Patrons of Arts, and Pilots to the Stage, Who guide it (through all tempests) from the rage Of envious whirle windes. O doe you but steere His Muse this day, and bring her tot'h wish'd shore, You are those Delphicke powers, whom shee'le adore. GIve leave: Lothario. My Soveraigne. The newes in briefe: how replyes Iacinta? Will she be woman? will shee meete our Armes With an alternate roundure? will she doe? Nothing to the purpose my Liege, cold as Aquarius, There she was borne, and there she still remaines; I cannot move her to enter into Pisces, I Laid the flesh to her too, and the delights thereof, she leanes Another way, and talkes all of the spirit, I Frighted her with spirits too, but all would not doe: She drew her knife, pointed it to her breast, swore She would doe something, but womens tongues are Sometimes longer then their armes. Enough, we have bethought another way. This wooing application is too milde: 'Tis better trust the mercy of a storme. To hast our way, then to be calmd for ever, Short of the wished haven: Now draw neere, you told us of a hot invasion▪ The barbarous and tawney Affricans, Intend upon our confines. True, my Liege. Full threescore thousand are discryde in Armes, Ready to passe the Streights of Gibbraltar, Whose watry divisions, their Affricke bounds om our Christian Europe in Granado, And Audalusia; they spred and flourish Their silver moones, led as it is supposde, By some blinde guide, some Saintish Infidell, That prophesies subjection of our Spaine, Vnto the Moores. They would deter us with their swarty lookes: Were they the same to their similitude, Sooty as the inhabitants of hell, Whom they neerest figure; cold feare should flye From us as distant as they are from beauty: They come to sacrifice their blouds to us, If that be red, a mre rubrum, Wee'le make so high to quench their silver moones; And on their carkasses an Ismus make To passe their straytes agen, and forrage there.