Jonson, Ben · published 1602 · first performed or written 1601 (Annals) comedy · Children of the Chapel (second) · Blackfriars T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.79 · 510 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
Why, it's all one. I have nothing to do, and I love not to be idle; I'll bear thee company. How call'st thou the Apothecary? O, that I knew a Name would fright him now. Rhadamanthus Sir: there's one so called, is a just judge in hell; And doth inflict strange vengeance on all those, That (here on earth) torment poor patiented spirits. He dwells at the Three Furies, by Ianus Temple? Your Apothecary does, Sir. heart, I own him Money for sweet meats, and he has laid to arrest me, I hear: but— Sir, I have made a most solemn vow: I will never Bail any man. Well then, I'll swear, and speak him fair, if the worst come. But his Name is Minos, not Rhadamanthus, Horace. That may be Sir: I but guest at his name by his Sign. But your Minos is a judge to, Sir? I protest to thee Horace (do but taste me once,) if I do know myself, and mine own virtues truly, thou wilt not make that esteem of Varius, or Virgil, or Tibullus, or any of 'em in deed, as now in thy Ignorance thou dost; which I am content to forgive: I would feign see which of these could pen more Verses in a day, or with more facility than I; or that could court his Mistress, kiss her hand, make better sport with her Fan, or her Dog? I can not Bail you yet, Sir. Or that could move his body more gracefully? or Dance better? you shooed see me, were it not i'the street. Nor yet. Why, I have been a Reveller, and at my cloth of silver Suit, and my long stocking, in my Time, and will be again— If you may be trusted, Sir. And then for my singing, Hermogenes himself Envies me; that is your only Master of Music you have in Rome. Is your Mother living, Sir? Au: Convert thy thoughts to somewhat else, I pray thee. You have much of the Mother in you, Sir: your Father is dead? I, I thank Ioue, and my Grandfather to, and all my kinsfolks, and well composed in their Graves. The more their happiness; that rest in peace, Free from th'abundant torture of thy tongue; Would I were with them too. What's that, Horace? I now remember me, Sir, of a sad fate A Cunning woman, on Sabella sung, When in her Urn, she cast my destiny, I being but a Child. What was't, I pray thee? She told me, I should surely never perish By Famine, Poison, or the Enemy's sword; The Hectic Fever, Cough, or Pleurisy, Should never hurt me; nor the tardy Gout: But in my Time, I should be once surprised, By a strong tedious Talker, that should vex And almost bring me to Consumption. Therefore (if I were wise) she warned me shun All such longwinded Monsters, as my bane; For if I could but scape that one Discourser, I might (no doubt) prove an old aged man. By your leave Sir?
nodes 597–639 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 17 of 50 in this edition
Length
510 words · 708 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.794 (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)
Why, its all one. I haue nothing to doe, and I looue not to be idle; Ile beare thee company. How call'ſt thou the Pothecary? O, that I knew a Name would fright him now. Rhadamanthus Sir: Ther's one ſo cald, is a iuſt Iudge in hell; And doth inflict ſtrange vengeance on all thoſe, That (here on earth) torment poore patient ſpirits. He dwells at the Three Furies, by Ianus Temple? Your Apothecary does, Sir. Hart, I owe him Money for ſweete meats, and he has laid to arreſt me, I heare: but— Sir, I haue made a moſt ſolemne vow: I will neuer Bayle any man. Well then, Ile ſweare, and ſpeake him faire, if the worſt come. But his Name is Minos, not Rhadamanthus, Horace. That may be Sir: I but gueſt at his name by his Signe. But your Minos is a Iudge to, Sir? I proteſt to thee Horace (doe but taſt me once,) if I doe know my ſelfe, and mine owne vertues truely, thou wilt not make that eſteeme of Varius, or Virgill, or Tibullus, or any of 'hem in deed, as now in thy Ignorance thou doſt; which I am content to forgiue: I would faine ſee which of theſe could pen more Verſes in a day, or with more facility then I; or that could court his Miſtres, kiſſe her hand, make better ſport with her Fanne, or her Dogge? I can not Bayle you yet, Sir. Or that could moue his body more gracefully? or Dance better? you ſhoo'd ſee me, were it not i'the ſtreet. Nor yet. Why, I haue beene a Reueller, and at my cloth of ſiluer Sute, and my long ſtocking, in my Time, and will be againe— If you may be truſted, Sir. And then for my ſinging, Hermogenes him ſelfe Enuies me; that is your onely Maſter of Muſique you haue in Rome. Is your Mother liuing, Sir? Au: Conuert thy thoughts to ſomewhat elſe, I pray thee. You haue much of the Mother in you, Sir: your Father is dead? I, I thanke Ioue, and my Grand-father to, and all my kinſfolkes, and well compoſ'd in their Graues. The more their happineſſe; that reſt in peace, Free from th'aboundant torture of thy tongue; Would I were with them too. What's that, Horace? I now remember me, Sir, of a ſad fate A Cunning woman, on Sabella ſung, When in her Vrne, ſhe caſt my deſtiny, I being but a Child. What was't, I pray thee? She tould me, I ſhould ſurely neuer periſh By Famine, Poyſon, or the Enemies ſword; The Hecticke Feuer, Cough, or Pleuriſy, Should neuer hurt me; nor the tardy Goute: But in my Time, I ſhould be once ſurpriz'd, By a ſtrong tedious Talker, that ſhould vex And almoſt bring me to Conſumption. Therefore (if I were wiſe) ſhe warnd me ſhunne All ſuch long-winded Monſters, as my bane; For if I could but ſcape that one Diſcourſer, I might (no doubt) prooue an ould aged man. By your leaue Sir?