Monsieur Thomas (Father's Own Son) · chunk 15 of 42
Fletcher, John · published 1639 · first performed or written 1615 [1610-c.1616] (Annals) comedy · Unknown · Blackfriars T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.83 · 485 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
O my dearest, Let but your goodness judge: your own part: pitiy: Set but your eyes on his afflictions: He is mine, and so becomes your charge: but think What ruin nature suffers in this young man, What loss humanity, and noble manhood: Take to your better judgement my declining, My age, hung full of impotence, and ills, My body budding now no more: sere winter Hath sealed that sap up, at the best and happiest I can but be your infant: you my nurse, And how unequal dearest: where his years, His sweetness, and his ever spring of goodness, My fortunes growing in him, and myself too, Which makes him all your old love: misconceive not, I say not this, as weary of my bondage, Or ready to infringe my faith: bear witness, Those eyes that I adore still, those lamps that light me To all the joy I have. You have said enough sir, And more than ere I thought that tongue could utter, But ye are a man, a false man too. Dear Cellide. And now, to show you that I am a woman Robbed of her rest, and fooled out of her fondness, The Gentleman shall live: and if he love me, Ye shall be both my triumphs: I will to him, And as you carelessly fling off your fortune, And now grow weary of my easy winning, So will I lose the name of Valentine, From henceforth all his flatteries, and believe it, Since ye have so so slightly parted with affection, And that affection you have pawned your faith for: From this hour, no repentance, vows, nor prayers Shall pluck me back again: what I shall do, Yet I will undertake his cure, expect it, Shall minister no comfort, no content To either of ye, but hourly more vexations. Why let him dye then. No, so much I have loved To be commanded by you, that even now, Even in my hate I will obey your wishes. What shall I do? die like a fool unsorrowed? A bankrupt fool, that flings away his treasure? I must begin my cure. And I my crosses. CLap on the Cataplasm. Good Gentlemen, Good learned Gentlemen. And see those brother there, Ready within this hour, pray keep your arms in, The air is raw, and ministers much evil. Pray leave me: I beseech ye leave me gentlemen. I have no other sickness but your presence, Convey your Cataplasms to those that need 'em, Your Vomits, and your Clysters. Pray be ruled sir. Bring in the lettuce cap: you must be shaved sir, And then how suddenly we'll make you sleep. Till doomsday: what unnecessary nothings Are these about a wounded mind? How do ye? What questions they propound too: how do you sir? I am glad to see you well. A great distemper, it grows hotter still. Open your mouth I pray sir.
nodes 993–1059 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 15 of 42 in this edition
Length
485 words · 637 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.834 (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)
O my deareſt, Let but your goodneſſe judge: your owne part: pitiy: Set but your eyes on his afflictions: He is mine, and ſo becomes your charge: but thinke What ruine nature ſuffers in this yong man, What loſſe humanity, and noble manhood: Take to your better judgement my declining, My age, hung full of impotence, and ils, My body budding now no more: ſeere winter Hath ſeal'd that ſap up, at the beſt and happieſt I can but be your infant: you my nurſe, And how unequall deereſt: where his yeeres, His ſweetneſſe, and his ever ſpring of goodneſſe, My fortunes growing in him, and my ſelfe too, Which makes him all your old love: miſconceive not, I ſay not this, as weary of my bondage, Or ready to infringe my faith: beare witneſſe, Thoſe eyes that I adore ſtill, thoſe lamps that light me To all the joy I have. You have ſaid enough ſir, And more then ere I thought that tongue could utter, But ye are a man, a falſe man too. Deere Cellide. And now, to ſhew you that I am a woman Rob'd of her reſt, and fool'd out of her fondneſſe, The Gentleman ſhall live: and if he love me, Ye ſhall be both my triumphs: I will to him, And as you careleſly fling off your fortune, And now grow weary of my eaſie winning, So will I loſe the name of Valentine, From henceforth all his flatteries, and beleeve it, Since ye have ſo ſo ſlightly parted with affection, And that affection you have pawn'd your faith for: From this houre, no repentance, vowes, nor prayers Shall plucke me backe agen: what I ſhall doe, Yet I will undertake his cure, expect it, Shall miniſter no comfort, no content To either of ye, but hourely more vexations. Why let him dye then. No, ſo much I have loved To be commanded by you, that even now, Even in my hate I will obey your wiſhes. What ſhall I doe? Dye like a foole unſorrow'd? A bankrupt foole, that flings away his treaſure? I muſt begin my cure. And I my croſſes. CLap on the Cataplaſme. Good Gentlemen, Good learned Gentlemen. And ſee thoſe brothe there, Ready within this houre, pray keep your armes in, The ayre is raw, and miniſters much evill. Pray leave me: I beſeech ye leave me gentlemen. I have no other ſickneſſe but your preſence, Convey your Cataplaſmes to thoſe that need 'em, Your Vomits, and your Clyſters. Pray be rul'd ſir. Bring in the Lettice cap: you muſt be ſhaved ſir, And then how ſuddenly wee'l make you ſleep. Till doomeſ-day: what unneceſſary nothings Are theſe about a wounded minde? How doe ye? What queſtions they propound too: how do you ſir? I am glad to ſee you well. A great diſtemper, it growes hotter ſtill. Open your mouth I pray ſir.