Greene, Robert · published 1630 · first performed or written 1589 [1586-1590] (Annals) comedy · Queen Elizabeth's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.72 · 500 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
But Bacon roves a bow beyond his reach, And tells of more than Magic can perform: Thinking to get a fame by fooleries, Have I not passed as far in state of schools, And read of many secrets? yet to think. That heads of brass can utter any voice, Or more to tell of deep Philosophy, This is a Fable Aesop had forgot. Burden, thou wrong'st me in detracting thus, Bacon loves not to stuff himself with lies: But tell me fore these Doctors if thou dare, Of certain questions I shall move to thee. I will, ask what thou can. marry sir, he'll straight be on your pick pack to know whether the feminine or the masculine gender be most worthy. Were you not yesterday Master Burden at Henley upon Thames? I was, what then? What book studied you thereon all night? ay, none at all, I read not there a line. Then Doctors, friar Bacons Art knows nought. What say you to this, Master Burden, doth he not touch you? I pass not of his frivolous speeches. Nay Master Burden, my master ere he hath done with you, will turn you from a Doctor to a dunce, and shake you so small, that he will leave you no more learning in you then is in Balams Ass. Masters, for that learned Burdens skill is deep, And sore he doubts of Bacon's Cabalism: I'll show you why he haunts to Henley oft, Not Doctors for to taste the fragrant air: But there to spend the night in Alchemy, To multiply with secret spells of Art. Thus private steals he learning from us all, To prove my saying true, I'll show you straight, The book he keeps at Henley for himself. Nay, now my master goes to conjuration, take heed. Masters, stand still, fear not, I'll show you but his book. Per omnes deos infernales Belcephon. Oh master cease your conjuration, or you spoil all, for her's a she devil come with a shoulder of mutton on a spit, you have marred the devil's supper, but no doubt he thinks our College fare is slender, and so hath sent you his cook with a shoulder of mutton to make it exceed. Oh where am I, or what's become of me? What art thou? Hostess at Henley, mistress of the Bell. How camest thou here? As I was in the kitchen 'mongst the maids, Spitting the meat against supper for my guests: A motion moved me to look forth of door, No sooner had I pried into the yard. But straight a whirlwind hoist me from thence, And mounted me aloft unto the clouds: As in a trance I thought nor feared nought, Nor know I where or whither I was ta'en: Nor where I am, nor what these persons be. No, know you not master Burden? Oh yes good sir, he is my daily guest. What, master Burden, 'twas but yesternight, That you and I at Henley played at cards.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 207–258 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 5 of 33 in this edition
Length
500 words · 657 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.719 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
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)
But Bacon roues a bow beyond his reach, And tels of more then Magicke can performe: Thinking to get a fame by fooleries, Haue I not paſt as farre in ſtate of ſchooles, And read of many ſecrets? yet to thinke. That heads of braſſe can vtter any voyce, Or more to tell of deepe Philoſophy, This is a Fable Aeſope had forgot. Burden, thou wrongſt me in detracting thus, Bacon loues not to ſtuffe himſelfe with lyes: But tell me fore theſe Doctors if thou date, Of certaine queſtions I ſhall moue to thee. I will, aske what thou can. Mary ſir, hee'le ſtraight bee on your pick packe to know whether the feminine or the maſculine gender be moſt worthy. Were you not yeſterday Maſter Burden at Henly vpon Themes? I was, what then? What booke ſtudyed you thereon all night? I, none at all, I read not there a line. Then Doctors, Fryer Bacons Art knowes nought. What ſay you to this, Maſter Burden, doth hee not touch you? I paſſe not of his friuolous ſpeeches. Nay Maſter Burden, my maſter ere hee hath done with you, will turne you from a Doctor to a dunce, and ſhake you ſo ſmall, that he will leaue you no more learning in you then is in Balams Aſſe. Maſters, for that learned Burdens skill is deepe, And ſore he doubts of Bacons Cabaliſme: Ile ſhew you why he haunts to Henly oft, Not Doctors for to taſte the fragrant aire: But there to ſpend the night in Alumy, To multiply with ſecret ſpels of Art. Thus priuat ſteales he learning from vs all, To proue my ſaying true, Ile ſhew you ſtraight, The booke he keepes at Henly for himſelfe. Nay, now my maſter goes to coniuration, take heede. Maſters, ſtand ſtill, feare not, Ile ſhewe you but his booke. Per omnes deos infernales Belcephon. Oh maſter ceaſe your coniuration, or you ſpoile all, for her's a ſhe deuill come with a ſhoulder of mutton on a ſpit, you haue marde the deuils ſupper, but no doubt he thinkes our Colledge fare is ſlender, and ſo hath ſent you his cooke with a ſhoulder of mutton to make it exceed. Oh where am I, or whats become of me? What art thou? Hoſteſſe at Henly, miſtreſſe of the Bell. How cameſt thou here? As I was in the kitchen mongſt the maids, Spitting the meate againſt ſupper for my gueſſe: A motion moued me to looke forth of dore, No ſooner had I pryed into the yard. But ſtraight a whirlewind hoiſted me from thence, And mounted me aloft vnto the cloudes: As in a trance I thought nor feared nought, Nor know I where or whither I was tane: Nor where I am, nor what theſe perſons be. No, know you not maſter Burden? Oh yes good ſir, he is my daily gueſt. What, maſter Burden, 'twas but yeſternight, That you and I at Henly plaid at cardes.