Dekker, Thomas · published 1636 · first performed or written 1631 [1619-1631] (Annals) comedy · Prince Charles's Men (first) (?) T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.83 · 485 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
broker, my soul foresaw goods thus ill got, Would as ill thrive, you asked a hundred pound, 'Tis yours; but crafty broker, you played the knave To beg, not needing. This man now must have His request too, 'tis honest, fair, and just, Take hence that varlet therefore, and on his shins, In ready payment, give him an hundred blows. My Lord, my pitiful Lord. I must bestir my stumps too. justice; my Lord. I will not ravel out time; broker, I offer you A hundred for a hundred. That's his own usury. A hundred pound, or else a hundred blows, Give him that money, he shall release you those. Take it, and may'st thou rot with't. Follow thee thy curse, would blows might make all Brokers still disburse. What next? The Party sir: What party sir? If honest, speak, I love no whisperer. This Gentleman is a great shuter. In a Longbow? how far shoots he? To your Lordship, to be your Apothecary. Umph; what spy you in my face, that I should buy Your drugs and drenches? bears not my cheek a colour As fresh as any old man's? do my bones Ache with youth's riots? or my blood boil hot With fevers? or is't numbed with dropsies, cold Coughs, Rheums, Catarrhs, gouts, Apoplexy fits? The common sores of age, on me never ran, Nor Galenist, nor Paracelsian, Shall ere read Physical Lecture upon me. Two excellent fellows my Lord. I honour their profession, What the Creator does, they in part do, For a physician's a man-maker too,— but honest friend, My kitchen is my Doctor, and my Garden, Trusty Apothecary; when they give me pills, So gently work they, I'm not choked with bills, Which be a stronger purge than the disease. Alas my Lord, and 'twere not for bills, our shops would Sir, I believe you, bills nor pills I'll take; (down. I stand on sickness shore, and see men tossed From one disease to another, at last lost; But to such seas of surfeits, where they're drowned, I never venturing, am ever sound. Ever sound my Lord? if all our gallants should be so, Doctors, Pothecaries, and Barber-surgeons, might feed upon Onions and Buttermilk; ever sound! a brave world then. 'Tis their own fault, if they fear springs or falls, Wineglasses filled too fast, make urinals; Man was at first borne sound, and he grows ill Seldom by course of nature, but by will— Distempers are not ours, there should be then (Were we ourselves) no Physic, men to men Are both diseases cause, and the disease, I'm free from (thanks good fate) either of these. My 50. crowns. Not I. No, must I give you a Glister? Hist, hist. If your Lordship will not allow me minister to yourself, pray let me give your man a purgation. Me a Purgation? my Lord, I'm passing well. Him a Purge, why?
nodes 1324–1386 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 23 of 30 in this edition
Length
485 words · 710 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.833 (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)
Broaker, my soule foresaw goods thus ill got, Would as ill thrive, you ask'd a hundred pound, 'Tis yours; but crafty Broaker, you plaid the knave To begg, not needing. This man now must have His request too, 'tis honest, faire, and just, Take hence that varlet therefore, and on his shinnes, In ready payment, give him an hundred blowes. My Lord, my pitifull Lord. I must bestirre my stumps too. Iustice; my Lord. I will not ravill out time; Broaker, I offer you A hundred for a hundred. That's his owne usury. A hundred pound, or else a hundred blowes, Give him that money, he shall release you those. Take it, and may'st thou rot with't. Follow thee thy curse, Wo'd blowes might make all Broakers still disburse. What next? The Party sir: What party sir? If honest, speake, I love no whisperer. This Gentleman is a great shuter. In a Long-bow? how farre shootes hee? To your Lordship, to be your Apothecary. Vmph; what spie you in my face, that I sho'd buy Your druggs and drenches? beares not my cheeke a colour As fresh as any old mans? doe my bones Ake with youth's ryotts? or my blood boile hot With seavers? or is't num'd with dropsies, cold Coughes, Rhumes, Catarrhes, Gowts, Apoplexie fits? The common soares of age, on me never ran, Nor Galenist, nor Paracelsian, Shall ere reade Phisicall Lecture upon me. Two excellent fellowes my Lord. I honour their profession, What the Creator does, they in part doe, For a Phisician's a man-maker too,—but honest friend, My kitchin is my Doctor, and my Garden, Trustie Apothecarie; when they give me pills, So gently worke they, I'me not choak'd with bills, Which area stronger purge then the disease. Alas my Lord, and 'twere not for bills, our shops wo'd Sir, I beleeve you, bills nor pills Ile take; (downe. I stand on sicknes shoare, and see men tost From one disease to another, at last lost; But to such seas of surfetts, where they're drown'd, I never ventering, am ever sound. Ever sound my Lord? if all our gallants sho'd bee so, Doctors, Pothecaries, and Barber-surgeons, might feed upon Onyons and Butter-milke; ever sound! a brave world then. 'Tis their owne fault, if they feare springs or falls, Wine-glasses fill'd too fast, make urynalls; Man was at first borne sound, and hee growes ill Seldome by course of nature, but by will— Distempers are not ours, there should be then (Were wee our selues) no Phisicke, men to men Are both diseases cause, and the disease, I'me free from (thankes good fate) either of these. My 50. Crownes. Not I. No, must I give you a Glister? Hist, hist. If your Lordship will not allow me minister to your selfe, pray let me give your man a purgation. Me a Purgation? my Lord, I'me passing well. Him a Purge, why?