Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) comedy · King's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.81 · 475 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
He has no faith in physic: he does think, Most of your Doctors are the greater danger, And worse disease, t' escape. I often have Heard him protest, that your physician Should never be his heir. Not I his heir? Not your physician, sir. O, no, no, no, I do not mean it. No, sir, nor their fees He cannot brook: he says, they flay a man, Before they kill him. Right, I do conceive you. And then, they do it by experiment; For which the law not only doth absolve 'em, But gives them great reward: and, he is loath To hire his death, so. It is true, they kill, With as much licence, as a judge. Nay, more; For he but kills, sir, where the law condemns, And these can kill him, too. ay, or me: Or any man. How does his apoplex? Is that strong on him, still? Most violent. His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, His face drawn longer, than 't was wont— How? how? Stronger, than he was wont? No, sir: his face Drawn longer, than 't was wont. O, good. His mouth Is ever gaping, and his eyelids hang. Good. A freezing numbness stiffens all his joints, And makes the colour of his flesh like lead. 'Tis good. His pulse beats slow, and dull. Good symptoms, still. And, from his brain— Ha? how? not from his brain? Yes, sir, and from his brain— I conceive you, good.) Flows a cold sweat, with a continual rheum, Forth the resolved corners of his eyes. Is't possible? yet I am better, ha! How does he, with the swimming of his head? O, sir, 'tis past, the scotomy; he, now, Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort: You hardly can perceive him, that he breathes. Excellent, excellent, sure I shall outlast him: This makes me young again, a score of years. I was a coming for you, sir. Has he made his will? What has he given me? No, sir. Nothing? ha? He has not made his will, sir. Oh, oh, oh. What then did VOLTORE, the Lawyer, here? He smelled a carcase, sir, when he but heard My master was about his testament; (As I did urge him to it, for your good—) He came unto him, did he? I thought so. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate. To be his heir? I do not know, sir. True, I know it too. By your own scale, sir. Well, I shall prevent him, yet. See, MOSCA, look, Here, I have brought a bag of bright cecchines, Will quite weigh down his plate. Yea, marry, sir! This is true physic, this your sacred medicine, No talk of opiates, to this great elixir. 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. It shall be ministered to him, in his bowl?
nodes 412–492 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 7 of 53 in this edition
Length
475 words · 682 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.813 (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)
He ha's no faith in physick: he do's thinke, Most of your Doctors are the greater danger, And worse disease, t' escape. I often haue Heard him protest, that your physitian Should neuer be his heire. Not I his heire? Not your physitian, sir. O, no, no, no, I doe not meane it. No, sir, nor their fees He cannot brooke: he sayes, they flay a man, Before they kill him. Right, I doe conceiue you. And then, they doe it by experiment; For which the law not onely doth absolue 'hem, But giues them great reward: and, he is loth To hire his death, so. It is true, they kill, With as much licence, as a iudge. Nay, more; For he but kills, sir, where the law condemnes, And these can kill him, too. I, or me: Or any man. How do's his apoplexe? Is that strong on him, still? Most violent. His speech is broken, and his eyes are set, His face drawne longer, then 't was wont— How? how? Stronger, then he was wont? No, sir: his face Drawne longer, then 't was wont. O, good. His mouth Is euer gaping, and his eye-lids hang. Good. A freezing numnesse stiffens all his ioynts, And makes the colour of his flesh like lead. 'Tis good. His pulse beats slow, and dull. Good symptomes, still. And, from his brain— Ha? how? not from his brain? Yes, sir, and from his brain— I conceiue you, good.) Flowes a cold sweat, with a continuall rhewme, Forth the resolued corners of his eyes. Is't possible? yet I am better, ha! How do's he, with the swimming of his head? O, sir, 'tis past, the scotomy; he, now, Hath lost his feeling, and hath left to snort: You hardly can perceiue him, that he breathes. Excellent, excellent, sure I shall out-last him: This makes me yong againe, a score of yeeres. I was a comming for you, sir. Has he made his will? What has he giu'n me? No, sir. Nothing? ha? He has not made his will, sir. Oh, oh, oh. What then did VOLTORE, the Lawyer, here? He smelt a carcasse, sir, when he but heard My master was about his testament; (As I did vrge him to it, for your good—) He came vnto him, did he? I thought so. Yes, and presented him this piece of plate. To be his heire? I doe not know, sir. True, I know it too. By your owne scale, sir. Well, I shall preuent him, yet. See, MOSCA, looke, Here, I haue brought a bag of bright cecchines, Will quite weigh downe his plate. Yea, mary, sir! This is true physick, this your sacred medicine, No talke of opiates, to this great elixir. 'Tis aurum palpabile, if not potabile. It shall be minister'd to him, in his bowle?