The Constant Maid (Love Will Find Out the Way) · chunk 10 of 32
Shirley, James · published 1640 · first performed or written 1638 [1630(?)-1640] (Annals) not in BritDrama T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.79 · 472 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
I have cured her melancholy; but she's a tother side Now extreme merry, dance and sing, all air. 'Tis strange, methinks, nothing but extremities: Good Master Doctors could you not ha' pared Her tother leaden humour. Sir, I could not Kill the malignity of her melancholy Another way; extremities must be cured With extreme applications: my next work Shall be to abate this levity of her brain, And qualify her spleen, Sir, by degrees; So state her body in that modest temper She was possessed of. I complained before Of quietness, now she's all noise and madness, By your description. You must have patience A month or so, she is not mad, but merry, Some few vagaries; you must understand I have opened, Sir, her fancy, wherein lay All her imaginations confused, And on a heap, smothered for want of vent; And now the spirits that were imprisoned Rush out, which causes all her faculties, Before oppressed, to exercise so strangely, As the agitation of her tongue will manifest: she's here. Uncle, how does your body? you appear As lean as Lent, I've a great mind to dance About a Maypole, shall we? She is mad. This Doctor has for tick led me, I cannot choose but laugh, ha, ha. Uncle, if you'll procure a dispensation To marry me yourself, deduct the charge Out of my portion, I could love an old man Rarely, An old man with a bed full of bones etc. Uncle, when did you put on a clean shirt? D'ye hear, I dreamed o'th' Devil last night, They say 'tis good luck; do you know him, Uncle. I know the Devil? He's a fine old Gentleman, And something like you, no such Bugbear as The world imagines, you an he'll keep house Together one day; but you'll burn Sea- coal To save charges, and stink the poor souls so. Uncle, you are not merry, I pray laugh A little: imagine you'd undone a widow, Or turned an Orphan begging; ha, ha, etc. Faith how many Churches do you mean to build Before you die? six bells in every steeple, And let'em all go to the City tune, Turn again Whittington; who, they say, Grew rich, and let his land out for nine lives, 'Cause all came in by a Cat: but let me counsel you To die at all adventures, great men do't in policy. Why does she talk of dying? she's stark mad. Could you not put into the next receipt Something to make her sleep well? Opium In a good quantity, they say, will do't. I'll so proportion it, she shall never wake: I did it for a Merchant's wife last week, Which loved a Knight: a great man, not long since Was weary of his Countess, and I cured him So artificially of his disease.
nodes 625–689 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 10 of 32 in this edition
Length
472 words · 628 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.791 (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)
I have cur'd her melancholly; but she's a t'other side Now extreme merrie, dance and sing, all aire. 'Tis strange, methinks, nothing but extremities: Good Master Doctors could you not ha par'd Her t'other leaden humor. Sir, I could not Kill the malignitie of her melancholly Another way; extremities must be cur'd With extreme applications: my next work Shall be to abate this levitie of her braine, And quallifie her spleene, Sir, by degrees; So state her body in that modest temper She was possest of. I complain'd before Of quietnesse, now she's all noyse and madnesse, By your description. You must have patience A month or so, she is not mad, but merrie, Some few vagaries; you must understand I have opend, Sir, her fancie, wherein lay All her imaginations confused, And on a heap, smother'd for want of vent; And now the spirits that were imprison'd Rush out, which causes all her faculties, Before opprest, to exercise so strangely, As the agitation of her tongue will manifest▪ Shee's here. Vncle, how does your body? you appeare As leane as Lent, I've a great mind to dance About a May-pole, shall we? She is mad. This Doctor has for ick led me, I cannot chuse but laugh, ha, ha. Vnckle, if you'l procure a dispensation To marrie me your selfe, deduct the charge Out of my portion, I could love an old Rarely, An old man with a bed full of &c. Vnckle, when did you put on a clean shirt? D'yee heare, I dreamt o'th' Devill last night, They say 'tis good luck; doe you know him, Vnckle▪ I know the Devill? He's a fine old Gentleman, And something like you, no such Bug-beare as The world imagines, you an he'll keep house Together one day; but you'll burne Sea- To save charges, and stink the poore soules so. Vnckle, you are not merrie, I pray laugh A little: imagine y'had undone a widdow, Or turn'd an Orphan begging; ha, ha, &c. Faith how many Churches doe you meane to build Before you dye? six bels in everie steeple, And let'em all goe to the Citie tune, Turne agen Whittington; who, they say, Grew rich, and let his land out for nine lives, 'Cause all came in by a Cat: but let me counsell you To dye at all adventures, great men doe't in policie. Why does she talk of dying? she's stark mad. Could you not put into the next receit Something to make her sleep well? Opium In a good quantitie, they say, will do't. I'll so proportion it, she shall never wake: I did it for a Merchants wife last weeke, Which loved a Knight: a great man, not long since Was wearie of his Countesse, and I cur'd him So artificially of his disease.