Monsieur Thomas (Father's Own Son) · chunk 9 of 42
Fletcher, John · published 1639 · first performed or written 1615 [1610-c.1616] (Annals) comedy · Unknown · Blackfriars T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.89 · 485 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
None, gentle sir, that I feel Your love is too too tender. Nay believe sir, You cannot be the master of your health, Either some fever lies in wait to catch ye, Whose harbinger's already in your face We see preparing: or some discontent, Which if it lie in this house, I dare say Both for this noble Gentleman, and all That live within it, shall as readily Be purged away, and with as much care softened, And where the cause is. 'Tis a joy to be ill, Where such a virtuous fair Physician Is ready to relieve: your noble cares I must, and ever shall be thankful for, And would my service (I dare not look upon her) But be not fearful, I feel nothing dangerous, A grudging caused by th' alteration Of air, may hang upon me: my heart's whole, (I would it were) I knew the cause to be so. No, you shall never know it. Some warm broths To purge the blood, and keep your bed a day Sir, And sweat it out. I have such cordials, That if you will but promise me to take 'em, Indeed you shall be well, and very quickly, I'll be your Doctor, you shall see how finely I'll fetch ye up again. He sweats extremely: Hot, very hot: his pulse beats like a drum now, Feel sister, feel, feel sweet. How that touch stung me? My gown there. And those julips in the window. Some see his bed made. This is most unhappy, Take courage man, 'tis nothing but an ague. And this shall be the last fit. Not by thousands: Now what 'tis to be truly miserable, I feel at full experience. He grows fainter. Come, lead him in, he shall to bed: a vomit, I'll have a vomit for him. A purge first, And if he breathed a vein. No, no, no bleeding, A Clyster will cool all. Be of good cheer Sir. He's loath to speak. How hard he holds my hand Aunt? I do not like that sign. Away to's chamber, Softly, he's full of pain, be diligent With all the care ye have: would I had scused him. WHy do you rail at me? do I dwell in her To force her to do this or that? your Letter, A wildfire on your Letter; our sweet Letter; You are so learned in your writs: ye stand now As if ye had worried sheep: you must tutne tippet, And suddenly, and truly, and discreetly Put on the shape of order and humanity, Or you must marry Malkyn the May Lady: You must, dear brother: do you make me carrier Of your confound-mee's, and your culverins? Am I a seemly agent for your oaths? Who would have writ such a deboshed? Your patience, May not a man profess his Love? In blasphemies? Rack a maids tender cares, with dam's and devils?
nodes 562–635 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 9 of 42 in this edition
Length
485 words · 642 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.891 (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)
None, gentle ſir, that I feele Your love is too too tender. Nay beleeve ſir, You cannot be the maſter of your health, Either ſome feaver lyes in wait to catch ye, Whoſe harbinger's already in your face We ſee preparing: or ſome diſcontent, Which if it lye in this houſe, I dare ſay Both for this noble Gentleman, and all That live within it, ſhall as readily Be purg'd away, and with as much care ſoften'd, And where the cauſe is. 'Tis a joy to be ill, Where ſuch a vertuous faire Phyſitian Is ready to releeve: your noble cares I muſt, and ever ſhall be thankfull for, And would my ſervice (I dare not looke upon her) But be not fearefull, I feele nothing dangerous, A grudging caus'd by th' alteration Of ayre, may hang upon me: my heart's whole, (I would it were) I knew the cauſe to be ſo. No, you ſhall never know it. Some warme broths To purge the bloud, and keep your bed a day Sir, And ſweat it out. I have ſuch cordials, That if you will but promiſe me to take 'em, Indeed you ſhall be well, and very quickly, I'le be your Doctor, you ſhall ſee how finely I'le fetch ye up againe. He ſweats extreamely: Hot, very hot: his pulſe beats like a drum now, Feele ſiſter, feele, feele ſweet. How that touch ſtung me? My gowne there. And thoſe julips in the window. Some ſee his bed made. This is moſt unhappy, Take courage man, 'tis nothing but an ague. And this ſhall be the laſt fit. Not by thouſands: Now what 'tis to be truely miſerable, I feele at full experience. He growes fainter. Come, leade him in, he ſhall to bed: a vomit, I'le have a vomit for him. A purge firſt, And if he breath'd a veyne. No, no, no bleeding, A Clyſter will coole all. Be of good cheere Sir. He's loth to ſpeake. How hard he holds my hand Aunt? I doe not like that ſigne. Away to's chamber, Softly, he's full of paine, be diligent With all the care ye have: would I had ſcus'd him. VVHy do you raile at me? do I dwell in her To force her to do this or that? your Letter, A wilde-fire on your Letter; our ſweet Letter; You are ſo learned in your writs: ye ſtand now As if ye had worried ſheepe: you muſt tutne tippet, And ſuddenly, and truely, and diſcreetly Put on the ſhape of order and humanity, Or you muſt marry Malkyn the May Lady: You muſt, deere brother: doe you make me carrier Of your confound-mee's, and your culverings? Am I a ſeemely agent for your othes? Who would have writ ſuch a deboſh'd? Your patience, May not a man profeſſe his Love? In blaſphemies? Rack a maids tender cares, with dam's and divels?