The Magnetic Lady, or Humors Reconciled · chunk 24 of 45
Jonson, Ben · published 1640 · first performed or written 1632 [licensed for stage, Oct 12] (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T46 Swords, quarrels and valour · 507 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T46: rapier, sword, fight, gentlemen, gentleman, kicked, kill, dagger, signor, valour.
O yes, I have imagined Him triple armed, provoked too, and as furious As Homer makes Achilles; and I found Myself not frighted with his same one jot. Well, yet take heed. These fights imaginary, Are less than skirmishes; the fight of shadows: For shadows have their figure, motion And their umbratile action from the real Posture, and motion of the body's act Whereas (imaginarily) many times, Those men may fight, dare scarce eye one another, And much less meet. But if there be no help, Faith I would wish you, sand him a fair Challenge. I will go pen it presently. But word it In the most generous terms. Let me alone. And silken phrase: the courtliest kind of Quarrel. He'll make it a petition for his peace. O, yes, of right, and he may do it by Lau. Come, bring him out into the air a little: There set him down. Bow him, yet bow him more, Dash that same Glass of water in his face: Now tweak him by the nose. Hard, harder yet: If it but call the blood up from the heart, I ask no more. See, what a fear can do! Pinch him in the nape of the neck now; nip him, nip him. He feels, there's life in him. He graones, and stirs. Tell him the captain's gone. Ha! He's gone Sir. Give him a box, hard, hard, on his left care. O! How do you feel yourself? Sore, sore. But where? I'my neck. I nipped him there. And i' my head. I boxed him twice, or thrice, to move those Sinews. I swear you did. What a brave man's a Doctor, To beaten one into health! I thought his blows Would e'en ha' killed him: he did feel no more Than a great horse. Is the wild Captain gone? That man of murder? All is calm and quiet. Say you so, Cousin Bias? Than all's well. How quickly a man is lost! And soon recovered! Where there are means, and Doctors, learned men, And their Apothecaries, who are not now, (As Chawcer says) their friendship to begin. Well, could they teach each other how to win I'their swath bands—. Leave your Poetry good Gossip. Your Chawcers clouts, and wash your dishes with 'em, We must rub up the roots of his disease, And crave your peace a while, or else your absence. Nay, I know when to hold my peace. Than do it. Give me your hand Sir Moth. Let's feel your pulse. It is a Pursinesse, a kind of Stoppage, Or tumour o'the Purse, for want of exercise, That you are troubled with: some ligatures I'th' neck of your Vesica, or Marsupium, Are so close knit, that you cannot evaporate; And therefore you must use relaxatives. Beside, they say, you are so restive grown, You cannot but with trouble put your hand Into your pocket, to discharge a reckoning. And this we sons of Physic do call chiragra A kind of Cramp, or Hand-Gout. You shall purge for't.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
O yes, I have imagin'd Him treble arm'd, provok'd too, and as furious As Homer makes Achilles; and I find My ſelfe not frighted with his ſame one jot. Well, yet take heed. Theſe fights imaginary, Are leſſe then skirmiſhes; the fight of ſhadowes: For ſhadowes have their figure, motion And their umbratile action from the reall Poſture, and motion of the bodies act Whereas (imaginarily) many times, Thoſe men may fight, dare ſcarce eye one another, And much leſſe meet. But if there be no helpe, Faith I would wiſh you, ſend him a faire Challenge. I will goe pen it preſently. But word it In the moſt generous termes. Let me alone. And ſilken phraſe: the courtlieſt kind of Quarrell. He'l make it a petition for his peace. O, yes, of right, and hee may doe it by Lau. Come, bring him out into the aire a little: There ſet him downe. Bow him, yet bow him more, Daſh that ſame Glaſſe of water in his face: Now tweak him by the noſe. Hard, harder yet: If it but call the blood up from the heart, I aske no more. See, what a feare can doe! Pinch him in the nape of the neck now; nip him, nip him. He feeles, there's life in him. He graones, and ſtirres. Tell him the Captaine's gone. Ha! He's gone Sir. Gi' him a box, hard, hard, on his left care. O! How doe you feele your ſelfe? Sore, ſore. But where? I'my neck. I nipt him there. And i' my head. I box'd him twice, or thrice, to move thoſe Sinewes. I ſweare you did. What a brave man's a Doctor, To beat one into health! I thought his blowes Would eene ha' kild him: hee did feele no more Then a great horſe. Is the wild Captaine gone? That man of murther? All is calme and quiet. Say you ſo, Coſen Bias? Then all's well. How quickly a man is loſt! And ſoone recover'd! Where there are meanes, and Doctors, learned men, And their Apothecaries, who are not now, (As Chawcer ſayes) their friendſhip to begin. Well, could they teach each other how to win I'their ſwath bands—. Leave your Poetry good Goſſip. Your Chawcers clouts, and waſh your diſhes with 'hem, Wee muſt rub up the roots of his diſeaſe, And crave your peace a while, or elſe your abſence. Nay, I know when to hold my peace. Then do it. Gi' me your hand Sir Moath. Let's feele your pulſe. It is a Purſineſſe, a kind of Stoppage, Or tumor o'the Purſe, for want of exerciſe, That you are troubled with: ſome ligatures I'th neck of your Veſica, or Marſupium, Are ſo cloſe knit, that you cannot evaporate; And therefore you muſt uſe relaxatives. Beſide, they ſay, you are ſo reſtive growne, You cannot but with trouble put your hand Into your pocket, to diſcharge a reckoning. And this we ſonnes of Phyſick doe call chiragra A kind of Crampe, or Hand-Gout. You ſhall purge for't.