The Magnetic Lady, or Humors Reconciled · chunk 42 of 45
Jonson, Ben · published 1640 · first performed or written 1632 [licensed for stage, Oct 12] (Annals) comedy · King's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.76 · 498 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
'Tis true; I shall love Parrots better, while I know him. I'd have her statue cut, now in white marble. And have it painted in most orient colours. That's right! all City statues must be painted: Else, they be worth naught i' their subtle Judgements. My truest friend in Court, dear Mr. Bias; You hear o'the recovery of our Niece In fame, and credit? Yes, I have been with her, And gratulated to her; but I am sorry To found the Author o' the fowl aspersion Here i' your company, this insolent Doctor. You do mistake him: He is clear got of on't. A Gossip's Jealousy first gave the hint. He drives another way, now, as I would have him. he's a rare man, the Doctor, in his way. HE has done the noblest cure here, i' the house, On a poor Squire, my sister's Tailor, Needle That talked in's sleep; would walk to Saint John's wood, And Waltham Forest, scape by all the ponds, And pits i'the way; run over two-inch bridges; With his eyes fast, and i'the dead of night! I'll ha' you better acquainted with him. Doctor, Here is my dear, dear, dearest friend in Court, Wise, powerful Mr. Bias; pray you salute Each other, not as strangers, but true friends. This is the Gentleman you brought to day, A Suitor to your Niece? Yes. You were Agreed, I heard; the writings drawn between you? And sealed. What broke you of? This rumour of her? Was it not Mr. Bias? Which I found Now false, and therefore come to make amendss I' the first place. I stand to the old conditions. Faith give 'em him, Sir Moth, what ere they were. You have a brave occasion now, to cross The flaunting Mr. Compass, who pretends Right to the portion, by th'other Entail. And claims it. You do hear he's married? We hear his wife is run away from him, Within: She is not to be found i'the house, With all the Hue, and Cry is made for her, Through every room; the Larders ha' been searched, The Bak-houses, and Boulting-tub, the Ovens, Washhouse, and Brewhouse, nay the very Furnace, And yet she is not heard of. Be she ne'er heard of, The safety of Great Britain lies not on't. You are consent with the ten thousand pound, Defalking the four hundred garnish money? That's the condition here, afore the Doctor, And your demand, friend Bias. It is Sir Moth. Here comes the Parson than, shall make all sure. Go you with my friend Bias, Parson Palate, Unto my Niece; assure them we are agreed. And Mistress Compass too, is found within. Where was she hid? In an old Botle-house, Where they scraped trenchers; there her mother had thrust her. You shall have time, Sir, to triumph on him, When this fine feat is done, and his Rud-Ironside. Was ever any Gentlewoman used So barbarously by a malicious Gossip, Pretending to be Mother to her too?
nodes 2557–2626 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 42 of 45 in this edition
Length
498 words · 711 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.758 (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)
'Tis true; I ſhall love Parrots better, while I know him. Il'd have her ſtatue cut, now in white marble. And have it painted in moſt orient colours. That's right! all Citie ſtatues muſt be painted: Elſe, they be worth nought i' their ſubtile Judgements. My trueſt friend in Court, deare Mr. Bias; You heare o'the recovery of our Neice In fame, and credit? Yes, I have beene with her, And gratulated to her; but I am ſory To find the Author o' the fowle aſperſion Here i' your company, this inſolent Doctor. You doe miſtake him: He is cleare got off on't. A Goſſips Jealouſie firſt gave the hint. He drives another way, now, as I would have him. Hee's a rare man, the Doctor, in his way. H' has done the nobleſt cure here, i' the houſe, On a poore Squire, my ſiſters Taylor, Needle That talk'd in's ſleepe; would walke to Saint Iohn's wood, And Waltham Forreſt, ſcape by all the ponds, And pits i'the way; run over two-inch bridges; With his eyes faſt, and i'the dead of night! Ile ha' you better acquainted with him. Doctor, Here is my deare, deare, deareſt friend in Court, Wiſe, powerfull Mr. Bias; pray you ſalute Each other, not as ſtrangers, but true friends. This is the Gentleman you brought to day, A Suitor to your Neice? Yes. You were Agreed, I heard; the writings drawne betweene you? And ſeald. What broke you off? This rumour of her? Was it not Mr. Bias? Which I find Now falſe, and therefore come to make amends I' the firſt place. I ſtand to the old conditions. Faith give 'hem him, Sir Moath, what ere they were. You have a brave occaſion now, to croſſe The flanting Mr. Compaſſe, who pretends Right to the portion, by th'other Intaile. And claimes it. You doe heare he's married? We heare his wife is run away from him, Within: She is not to be found i'the houſe, With all the Hue, and Cry is made for her, Through every roome; the Larders ha' beene ſearch'd, The Bak-houſes, and Boulting-tub, the Ovens, Waſh-houſe, and Brew-houſe, nay the very Fornace, And yet ſhe is not heard of. Be ſhe nere heard of, The ſafety of Great Brittaine lyes not on't. You are concent with the ten thouſand pound, Defalking the foure hundred garniſh money? That's the condition here, afore the Doctor, And your demand, friend Bias. It is Sir Moath. Here comes the Parſon then, ſhall make all ſure. Goe you with my friend Bias, Parſon Palate, Vnto my Neice; aſſure them wee are agreed. And Mrs. Compaſſe too, is found within. Where was ſhe hid? In an old Botle-houſe, Where they ſcrap'd trenchers; there her mother had thruſt her. You ſhall have time, Sir, to triumph on him, When this fine feate is done, and his Rud-Ironſide. Was ever any Gentlewoman us'd So barbarouſly by a malitious Goſſip, Pretending to be Mother to her too?