The Queen's Arcadia (Arcadia Reformed) · chunk 20 of 41
Daniel, Samuel · published 1606 · first performed or written 1605 [Aug 30] (Annals) pastoral · before the Court T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.78 · 473 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
I pray Sir, let me take of that you gave, To Phillis th'other day, for that she said, Did comfort wondrously, and cheer her heart. Fair Nymph, you must, if you will use my art, Let me alone, to give what I think good, I knew what fitted Phillis malady, And so, I think, I know what will serve you. O what a wondrous skilful man is this? Why he knows all? O God, whoever thought Any man living, could have told so right A woman's grief in all points as he hath? Why this is strange that by thy very pulse, He should know all I ail, as well as I. Beside I fear he sees too much in me, More than I would that any man should see. methought (although I could not well conceive His words, he spoke so learned and so strange) He said I had misruled my body much, As if he meant that in some wanton sort, I had abused my body with some man. O how should he know that what is my pulse Become th'intelligencer of my shame? Or are my looks the index of my heart? Sure so he said, and methought too, he named Menalcas, or else some thing very like, And likewise named that cunning treacherous wretch That hath undone me, Colax, that vile devil, Who is indeed the cause of all my grief, For which I now seek physic, but o what Can physic do, to cure that hideous wound My lusts have given my Conscience? which I see Is that which only is diseased with in And not my body now, that's it doth so Disquiet all the lodging of my spirits, As keeps me waking, that is, it presents, Those ugly forms of terror that affright My broken sleeps, that lays upon my heart This heavy load that weighs it down with grief; And no disease beside, for which there is No cure I see at all, nor no redress. Didst thou allege vile man to my weak youth, How that those vows I made unto my love Were bands of custom, and could not lay on Those manacles on nature, which should keep Her freedom prisoner by our doom of breath? O impious wretch now nature gives the lie To thy foul heart, and tells my grieved soul, I have done wrong, to falsify that vow I first to my dear love Menalcas made. And says th'assurance and the faith is given By band on earth, the same is sealed in heaven. And therefore how Menalcas can these eyes That now abhor to look upon myself, Dare ever view that wronged face of thine, Who hast relied on this false heart of mine? Is't possible sweet Techne, what you say, That Cloris is so witty, and so coy?
nodes 1193–1249 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 20 of 41 in this edition
Length
473 words · 600 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.777 (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)
I pray Sir, let me take of that you gaue, To Phillis th'other day, for that she said, Did comfort wondrously, and cheere her heart. Faire Nimph, you must, if you will vse my arte, Let me alone, to giue what I thinke good, I knew what fitted Phillis maladie, And so, I thinke, I know what will serue you. O what a wondrous skilfull man is this? Why he knowes all? O God, who euer thought Any man liuing, could haue told so right A womans griefe in all points as he hath? Why this is strange that by thy very pulse, He should know all I ayle, as well as I. Beside I feare he sees too mch in me, More then I would that any man should see. Me thought (although I could not well conceiue His words, he spake so learned and so strang) He said I had misrld my bodie much, As if he meant that in some wanton sorte, I had abus'd my bodie with some man. O how should he know that what is my pulse Become th'intelligencer of my shame? Or are my lookes the index of my heart? Sure so he said, and me thought too, he nam'd Menalcas, or else some thing very like, And likewise nam'd that cunning treacherous wretch That hath vndone me, Colax, that vile deuill, Who is indeed the cause of all my griefe, For which I now seeke phisicke, but ô what Can phisicke doe, to cure that hideous wound My lusts haue giuen my Conscience? which I see Is that which onely is deseas'd with in And not my body now, that's it doth so Disquiet all the lodging of my spirits, As keeps me waking, that is, it presents, Those ougly formes of terror that affright My broken sleepes, that layes vpon my heart This heauy loade that weighes it downe with griefe; And no disease beside, for which there is No cure I see at all, nor no redresse. Didst thou alledge vile man to my weake youth, How that those vowes I made vnto my loue Were bands of custome, and could not lay on Those manacles on nature, which should keepe Her freedome prisoner by our dome of breath? Oimpious wretch now nature giues the lie To thy foule heart, and telles my grieued soule, I haue done wrong, to falsifie that vow I first to my deare loue Menalcas made. And sayes th'assurance and the faith is giuen By band on earth, the same is seald in heauen. And therefore how Menalcas can these eyes That now abhorre to looke vpon my selfe, Dare euer view that wronged face of thine, Who hast relide on this false heart of mine? Ist possible sweet Techne, what you say, That Cloris is so wittie, and so coy?