Dekker, Thomas · published 1636 · first performed or written 1631 [1619-1631] (Annals) comedy · Prince Charles's Men (first) (?) T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.86 · 509 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
That's Angelo, and you shall pardon him. With all my heart. He says he pardons thee with all his heart. Me Lor, be all mad, le brain crow, and run whereabout like de windmill sail, pardon a moy, por quoy my sweet Madam, pardon your povera Doctor. Because thou art my banish't Angelo. Starke mad. This her recovery? He is no Doctor, Nor that his man, but his dear friend Baptista; Has blacked this beard like a Comedian To play the mountebank; away, I'll marry None but that Doctor, and leave Angelo. I do pray Artely, Madam. Leave off thy gibberish, and I prithee speak Thy Native language. Par-ma-soy all French be-gor she be mad as the moon. Sweet girl, with gentle hands sir, take her hence. Stand from me, I must follow Angelo. Thine eyes drink sleep from the sweet god of rest. Oh, you shoot poisoned arrows thorough my breast. What strange new fury now possesseth her? Begar her imaginashon be out a de vitts, and so dazzle de two nyes, and come down so into de belly, and possibla for make her tinke me or you to be le gentleman she lovea, and so she takea my man for a jackanapes, me know not who. For one Baptista. Povera garshon a my trat. I do believe you both, but honest Doctor, Strain all thy Art, and so thou leave her well, I care not if you call up fiends from hell. Dar be too much devil in de body all ready be my trat my lord, me no stay here for ten hundred hundred coronas, she cry upon me 'tis Master Angelo, you tink so not one and two time, but a tired time, you smell a me out; And so cutta my troate; adieu my Lor. Still your opinion holds to kill that villain, And give her his heart dried. In de pot a vine, we, very fine. This gold take for thy pains to make her sound, There needs a desperate cure to a desperate wound. How blows it now? Fair, with a prosperous gale. Poor love, thou still art struck with thine own fate; My life hangs at a thread, friend I must fly. How, to be safe? I will take sanctuary, I know a reverend friar, in whose cell I'll lurk till storms blow over; If women knew What men feel for them, None their scorns should rue. Is't come to this, have the walls of the Castle been besieged thus long, lain open for a breach; and dare you not Give fire to once piece? oh y'are a proper soldier, good Sister, brother follow your game more close, or i'll leave you. What would you have me do? Why I would ha'you (tho' youyou be in woman's apparel) to be yourself a man, and do what you come for. I have been giving her a thousand on sets, And still a blushing cheek makes me retire; I speak not three words, but my tongue is ready To ask forgiveness of her.
nodes 1092–1142 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 19 of 30 in this edition
Length
509 words · 681 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.863 (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)
That's Angelo, and you shall pardon him. With all my heart. Hee sayes hee pardons thee with all his heart. Mee Lor, be all mad, le braine crowe, and run whirabout like de windmill saile, pardon a moy, por quoy my sweete Madam, pardon your povera Doctor. Because thou art my banish't Angelo. Starke mad. This her recoverie? Hee is no Doctor, Nor that his man, but his deare friend Baptista; Has black't this beard like a Comoedian To play the Mountibanke; avvay, Ile marry None but that Doctor, and leave Angelo. I doe pray Artely, Madam. Leave off thy gibberishe, and I prethee speake Thy Native language. Par-ma-soy all French be-gor sheebe mad as the moone. Sweet girle, with gentle hands sir, take her hence. Stand from mee, I must follow Angelo. Thine eyes drinke sleepe from the sweet god of rest. Oh, you shoote poyson'd arrowes thorow my breast. What strange new furie now possesseth her? Begar her imaginashon be out a de vitts, and so dazell de two nyes, and come downe so into de bellie, and possibla for make her tinke mee or you to be le shentle-man shee lovea, and so shee takea my man for a Iack-a-nape, mee know not who. For one Baptista. Povera garshon a my trat. I doe beleeve you both, but honest Doctor, Straine all thy Art, and so thou leave her well, I care not if you call up feinds from hell. Dar be too much devill in de body all ready be my trat my Lor, mee no stay heere for ten hundred hundred Coronaes, she cry upon mee 'tis Master Angelo, you tink so not one and two time, but a tyrd time, you smell a me out; And so cutta my troate; adue my Lor. Still your opinion holds to kill that villaine, And give her his heart dried. In de pot a vine, wee, very fine. This gold take for thy paines to make her sownde, There needs a desperate cure to a desperate wounde. How blowes it now? Faire, with a prosperous gale. Poore love, thou still art strucke with thine owne fate; My life hangs at a thred, friend I must flie. How, to be safe? I will take sanctuary, I know a reverend Fryar, in whose cell Ile lurke till stormes blow ore; If women knew What men feele for them, None their scornes should rue. Is't come to this, have the walls of the Castle beene besieged thus long, lien open for a breach; and dare you not Give fier to once piece? oh y'ar a proper soldyor, good Sister, brother follow your game more close, or i'le leave you. What wu'd you have me doe? Why I would ha'you (tho'you be in womans apparrell) to be your selfe a man, and do what you come for. I have bin giving her a thousand on setts, And still a blushing cheeke makes me retire; I speake not three words, but my tongue is ready To aske forgivenes of her.