Nabbes, Thomas · published 1637 · first performed or written 1637 (Annals) masque · King's Revels Company (?) · Salisbury Court T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.80 · 492 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
fixed in that resolution, I'll bring her to thee. That's my good Genius. The horrors of a thousand nights made black With pitchye tempests, and the Moon's defect, When she's affrighted with the howlings of Crotonean Wolves, and groans of dying Mandrakes Gathered for charms; the screech-owls fatal dirge▪ And Ghosts disturbed by furies from their peace. Are all within me. Wounded by the hands Of his distempered servants that are fled. Look up Physander, I am come to help thee, Not to afflict: I share thy sufferings. There's not an anguish but it is inflicted As equally on me. Why would Physander Cut wedlocks Gordian, and with looser eyes Dote on a common wanton▪ what is pleasure More than a lustful motion in the sense? The prosecution full of anxious fears; The end Repentance. Though content be called The soul of action, and licentious man Propounds it as the reason of his life; Yet if intemperate appetite pursue it, The pure end's lost, and ruin must attend it. But I would comfort thee. Do but express A detestation of thy former follies, We will be reunited, and enjoy Eternal pleasures. Can Bellanima Forgive the injuries that I have done her? she's milder than thou Love, or pities self. Let me be banished ever to converse With Monsters in a desert. 'tis a punishment Too little. Let me be confined to dwell On the North pole, where a continual Winter May bleak me to a statue; or inhabit The Acherusian fens, whose noisome air May choke my nostrils with their poisonous fumes, Yet linger death unto a thousand ages. we'll live Physander, and enjoy each other In new delights: thou shalt be cured by Temperance. she's the Physician that doth moderate Desire with reason, bridling appetite. Yonder's her Cave, whose plain, yet decent roof Shines not with ivory or plates of gold. No Tyrian purples cover her low couch▪ Nor are the carved supporters artists work Bought at the wealth of provinces; she feeds not On costly viands, in her gluttony, Wasting the spoils of conquests: from a rock That weeps a running crystal she doth fill Her shell cup, and drinks sparingly. She cannot Heale my affliction; mercies self denies A time and means, and only black despair Whispers th'approach of death. Remove that sin, And hope with sorrow. Greatest faults are small, When that alone may make amends for all. Might I yet live to practise my resolve Of reformation, sooner should the day Leave to distinguish night; the Sun should choke His breathless horses in the western main, And rise no more, the gray morn ushering in His light approach, than my relapse from thee, And goodness cause new miseries. Direct me, Yet heavenly ministers; inform my knowledge In the strict course that may preserve me happy, Whilst yet my sighs suck in th'unwilling air, That swells my wasted lungs. Though not in life, In death I'll be Bellanima's.
nodes 740–811 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 14 of 21 in this edition
Length
492 words · 677 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.800 (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)
Fix in that resolution, Ile bring her to thee. That's my good Genius. The horrours of a thousand nights made black With pitchye tempests, and the Moones defect, When hee's affrighted with the howlings of Cotonean Wolves, and groanes of dying Mandrakes Gather'd for charm ▪ the Shritchowles fatall dirge▪ And Ghosts disturb'd by furys from their pace. Are all within me. Wounded by the hands Of hi dstemper'd servants that are fled. Looke up Physander, I am come to help thee, Nt to afflict: I share thy suerings. There's not an anguish but it is inflicted As equally on me. Why would Physander Cut wedlocks Gordian, and with looser eyes Doate on a common wanton▪ what is pleasure More then a lustfull motion in the sense? The prosecution full of anxious feares▪ The end Repentance. Though content be call'd The soule of action, and licentious man Propounds it as the reason of his life; Yet if intemperate appetite pursue it, The pure end's lost, and ruine must attend it. But I would comfort thee. Doe but expresse A detestation of thy former follies, We will be reunited, and enjoy Eternall pleasures. Can Bellanima Forgive the injuries that I have done her? Shee's milder then thou Love, or pitties self. Let me be banish't ever to converse With Monsters in a desart▪ 'tis a punishment Too little. Let me be confin'd to dwell On the North pole, where a continuall Winter May bleake me to a statue; or inhabit The Acherusian fenns, whose noysome ayre May choake my nostrells with their poysonous fumes, Yet linger death unto a thousand ages. Wee'l live Physander, and enjoy each other In new delights: thou shalt be cur'd by Temperance. Shee's the Physitian that doth moderate Desire with reason, bridling appetite. Yonder's her Cave, whose plaine, yet decent roofe Shines not with ivory or plates of gold. No Tyrian purples cover her low couch▪ Nor are the carv'd supporters artists worke Bought at the wealth of provinces; she feeds not On costly viands, in her gluttony, Wasting the spoyles of conquests: from a rock That weeps a running christall she doth fill Her shell cup, and drinks sparingly. Shee cannot Heale my affliction; mercyes selfe denyes A time and meanes, and onely black despayre Whispers th'approach of death. Remove that sinne, And hope with sorrow. Greatest faults are small, When that alone may make amends for all. Might I yet live to practice my resolve Of reformation, sooner should the day Leave to distinguish night; the Sunne should choake His breathlesse horses in the western mayne, And rise no more, the gray morn ushering in His light approach, then my relapse from thee, And goodnesse cause new miseryes. Direct me, Yet heavenly ministers; informe my knowledge In the strict course that may preserve me happy, Whilst yet my sighes suck in th'unwilling ayre, That swells my wasted lunges. Though not in life, In death Ile be Bellanima's.