Dekker, Thomas · published 1636 · first performed or written 1631 [1619-1631] (Annals) comedy · Prince Charles's Men (first) (?) T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.88 · 494 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
Mine be your will; Oh me! what pains we take to bring forth ill! Such a disguise is safe too, since you never but once Were seen there. My wise sister ever. Send in the fellow there that brought the letter; Why how now? do his legs fail him already? A staff for his declining age. I have a pikestaff of mine own already, but I could not Keep our your scurvy desperate hogshead from coming In upon me, I'm cut i'th' coxcomb. Nothing I see is so like an old-man, as a young man drunk. Or when he comes from a wench. Before he bear your answer let him sleep. Whilst you laugh at what I could almost weep. Dear friend, I should both wrong my faith & fortunes, To make'em thus dance Antics; I shall never play the dissembler. Then never play the Lover; Death! for a woman, I'd be flayed alive, Could I but find one constant: is't such a matter For you then to put on a Doctors-gown, And his flat velvet-Cap, and speak the gibbering Of an Apothecary. If thus disguised I'm taken all the physic in the world Cannot prolong my life. And dying for her, You venture bravely, all women o'er you grave will pray that they so kind a man may have, As to die for'em; say your banishment Had borne you hence, what hells of discontent, Had racked your soul for her as hers for you? Should you but faint, well might you seem untrue, Where this attempt your loyalty shall approve, Who ventures farthest wins a Ladies-love. How are my beard and hair? Friend I protest, So rarely counterfeit, as if a painter Should draw a Doctor: were I sick myself, And met you with an urinal in my hand, I'd cast it at your head, unless you cast The water for me, come, all's passing well; Love which makes pale the cheeks, gives you complexion, Fit for a sallow Frenchman. I will on then, In France I long have lived, And know the Garb Of the French-mountebanks, whose apish gesture, Although in them I hold ridiculous, myself shall practise. For a doctors-man, You see I'm fitted, foot by foot I'll walk, and meet all dangers sent against your breast. I thank thee noble friend; let's then to court. The pangs a lover suffers are but short. How now Nurse, how does my Fiametta? Oh my sweet Lord, she's at it again, at it again! Who are with her? call for more help. More help! alas there's my Lady Vanni with her, and Ladies upon Ladies, and Doctors upon Doctors, but all cannot do. How does it take her Nurse? Oh sweet Princess, it takes her all over with a pricking; first about her stomach, and then she heaves and heaves, that no one man with all his weight, can keep her down. At this I wonder, that her sickness makes her Doctors fools.
nodes 598–658 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 11 of 30 in this edition
Length
494 words · 646 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.881 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T3 · seed 44: T4 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Mine be your will; Oh me! what paines we take to bring forth ill! Such a disguise is safe too, since you never but once Were seene there. My wise sister ever. Send in the fellow there that brought the letter; Why how now? doe his leggs faile him already? A staffe for his declining age. I have a pike-staffe of mine owne already, but I could not Keep our your scurvy desperate hoggs-head from coming In upon me, I'me cut i'th'cockscombe. Nothing I see is so like an old-man, as a youngman drunke. Or when he comes from a wench. Before he beare your answer let him sleep. Whil'st you laugh at what I could almost weepe. Deare friend, I should both wrong my faith & fortunes, To make'em thus dance Antickes; I shall never play the dissembler. Then never play the Lover; Death! for a woman, I'de be fleade alive, Could I but finde one constant: i'st such a matter For you then to put on a Doctours-gowne, And his flat velvet-Cap, and speake the gibbering Of an Apothecary. If thus disguis'd I'me taken all the phisicke in the world Cannot prolong my life. And dying for her, You venture bravely, all women o're you grave will pray that they so kinde a man may have, As to die for'em; say your banishment Had borne you hence, what hells of discontent, Had rack'd your soule for her as hers for you? Should you but faint, well might you seeme untrue, Where this attempt your loyalty shall approve, Who ventures farthest winns a Ladies-love. How are my beard and haire? Friend I protest, So rarely counterfeit, as if a painter Should draw a Doctour: were I sicke my selfe, And met you with an urinall in my hand, I'de cast it at your head, unlesse you cast The water for me, come, all's passing well; Love which makes pale the cheeks, gives you complexion, Fit for a sallow French-man. I will on then, In France I long haue liv'd, And know the Garbe Of the French-Mounte-bankes, whose apish gesture, Although in them I hold ridiculous, My selfe shall practise. For a Doctours-man, You see I'me fitted, foote by foote I'le walke, and meete all dangers sent against your breast. I thanke thee noble friend; let's then to court. The pangs a lover suffers are but short. How now Nurse, how does my Fiametta? Oh my sweete Lord, shees at it agen, at it agen! Who are with her? call for more helpe. More helpe! alas there's my Lady Vanni with her, and Ladies upon Ladies, and Doctours upon Doctours, but all cannot doe. How does it take her Nurse? Oh sweete Princesse, it takes her all over with a pricking; first about her stomack, and then she heaves and heaves, that no one man with all his weight, can keepe her downe. At this I wonder, that her sicknesse makes her Doctours fooles.