Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1598 (Annals) comedy · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.76 · 494 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.
Troth my head aches extremely, on a sudden. Oh, the lord! How now? what? Alas, how it burns? muss, keep you warm, good truth it is this new disease! there's a number are troubled withal! for loves sake, sweet heart, come in, out of the air. How simple, and how subtle are her answers? A new disease, and many troubled with it! Why, true: she heard me, all the world to nothing. I pray thee, good sweet heart, come in; the air will do you harm in, troth. The air! she has me i' the wind! sweet heart! I'll come to you presently: 't will away, I hope. Pray heaven it do. A new disease? I know not, new, or old, But it may well be called poor mortals plague: For, like a pestilence, it doth infect The houses of the brain. First, it begins Solely to work upon the fantasy, Filling her seat with such pestiferous air, As soon corrupts the judgement; and from thence, Sends like contagion to the memory: Still each to other giving the infection. Which, as a subtle vapour, spreads itself, Confusedly, through every sensive part, Till not a thought, or motion, in the mind, Be free from the black poison of suspect. Ah, but what misery is it, to know this? Or, knowing it, to want the minds erection, In such extremes? Well, I will once more strive, (In spite of this black cloud) myself to be, And shake the fever off, that thus shakes me. 'Slid, I cannot choose but laugh, to see myself translated thus, from a poor creature to a creator; for now must I create an intolerable sort of lies, or my present profession loses the grace: and yet the lie to a man of my coat, is as ominous a fruit, as the Fico. O sir, it holds for good polity ever, to have that outwardly in vilest estimation, that inwardly is most dear to us. So much, for my borrowed shape. Well, the troth is, my old master intends to follow my young, dry foot, over More-fields, to London, this morning: now I, knowing, of this hunting-match, or rather conspiracy, and to insinuate with my young master (for so must we that are blue-waiters, and men of hope and service do, or perhaps we may wear motley at the years end, and who wears motley, you know) have got me afore, in this disguise, determining here to lie in ambuscado, and intercept him, in the midway. If I can but get his cloak, his purse, his hat, nay, anything, to cut him off, that is, to stay his journey, Veni, vidi, vici, I may say with Captain CAESAR, I am made for ever, i'faith. Well, now must I practise to get the true garb of one of these lanceknights, my arm here, and my— young master! and his cousin, Mr. STEPHEN, as I am true counterfeit man of war, and no soldier!
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 504–533 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 16 of 53 in this edition
Length
494 words · 688 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.757 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
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)
Troth my head akes extremely, on a sudden. Oh, the lord! How now? what? Alas, how it burnes? MVSSE, keepe you warme, good truth it is this new disease! there's a number are troubled withall! for loues sake, sweet heart, come in, out of the aire. How simple, and how subtill are her answeres? A new disease, and many troubled with it! Why, true: shee heard me, all the world to nothing. I pray thee, good sweet heart, come in; the aire will doe you harme in, troth. The aire! shee has me i' the wind! sweet heart! Ile come to you presently: 't will away, I hope. Pray heauen it doe. A new disease? I know not, new, or old, But it may well be call'd poore mortalls plague: For, like a pestilence, it doth infect The houses of the braine. First, it begins Solely to worke vpon the phantasie, Filling her seat with such pestiferous aire, As soone corrupts the iudgement; and from thence, Sends like contagion to the memorie: Still each to other giuing the infection. Which, as a subtle vapor, spreads it selfe, Confusedly, through euery sensiue part, Till not a thought, or motion, in the mind, Be free from the blacke poyson of suspect. Ah, but what miserie' is it, to know this? Or, knowing it, to want the mindes erection, In such extremes? Well, I will once more striue, (In spight of this black cloud) myselfe to be, And shake the feauer off, that thus shakes me. S'Lid, I cannot choose but laugh, to see myselfe translated thus, from a poore creature to a creator; for now must I create an intolerable sort of lyes, or my present profession looses the grace: and yet the lye to a man of my coat, is as ominous a fruit, as the Fico. O sir, it holds for good politie euer, to haue that outwardly in vilest estimation, that inwardly is most deare to vs. So much, for my borrowed shape. Well, the troth is, my old master intends to follow my yong, drie foot, ouer More-fields, to London, this morning: now I, knowing, of this hunting-match, or rather conspiracie, and to insinuate with my yong master (for so must we that are blew-waiters, and men of hope and seruice doe, or perhaps wee may weare motley at the yeeres end, and who weares motley, you know) haue got me afore, in this disguise, determining here to lye in ambuscado, and intercept him, in the mid-way. If I can but get his cloke, his purse, his hat, nay, anything, to cut him off, that is, to stay his iourney, Veni, vidi, vici, I may say with Captayne CAESAR, I am made for euer, ifaith. Well, now must I practice to get the true garb of one of these Lance-knights, my arme here, and my—yong master! and his cousin, Mr. STEPHEN, as I am true counterfeit man of warre, and no souldier!