Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1606 [1605-1606] (Annals) comedy · King's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.85 · 502 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
I know not, sir, But some on't, there they poured into his ears, Some in his nostrils, and recovered him; Applying but the fricace. POX o' that fricace. And since, to seem the more officious, And flattering of his health, there, they have had (At extreme fees) the college of physicians Consulting on him, how they might restore him; Where, one would have a cataplasm of spices, Another, a flayed ape clapped to his breast, A third would ha'it a dog, a fourth an oil With wild cats skins: at last, they all resolved That, to preserve him, was no other means, But some young woman must be straight sought out, Lusty, and full of juice, to sleep by him; And, to this service (most unhappily, And most unwillingly) am I now employed, Which, here, I thought to pre-acquaint you with, For your advice, since it concerns you most, Because, I would not do that thing might cross Your ends, on whom I have my whole dependence, sir: Yet, if I do it not, they may delate My slackness to my patron, work me out Of his opinion; and there, all your hopes, Venters, or whatsoever, are all frustrate. I do but tell you, sir. Besides, they are all Now striving, who shall first present him. Therefore— I could entreat you, briefly, conclude somewhat: Prevent 'em if you can. Death to my hopes! This is my villainous fortune! Best to hire Some common courtesan? ay, I thought on that, sir. But they are all so subtle, full of art, And age again doting, and flexible, So as— I cannot tell— we may perchance Light on a quean, may cheat us all. 'Tis true. No, no: it must be one, that has no tricks, sir, Some simple thing, a creature, made unto it; Some wench you may command. Ha' you no kinswoman? God's so— Think, think, think, think, think, think, think, sir. One o'the Doctors offered, there, his daughter. How! Yes, signor LUPO, the physician, His daughter? And a virgin, sir. Why? Alas He knows the state of's body, what it is; That nought can warm his blood, sir, but a fever; Nor any incantation raise his spirit: A long forgetfulness hath seized that part. Besides, sir, who shall know it? some one, or two— I pray thee give me leave. If any man But I had had this luck— The thing in't self, I know, is nothing— Wherefore should not I As well command my blood, and my affections, As this dull Doctor? In the point of honour, The cases are all one, of wife, and daughter. I hear him coming. She shall do't: 'Tis done. 'slight, if this Doctor, who is not engaged, Unless 't be for his counsel (which is nothing) Offer his daughter, what should I, that am So deeply in? I will prevent him: wretch! Covetous wretch! MOSCA, I have determined. How, sir? We'll make all sure. The party, you wot of, Shall be mine own wife, MOSCA.
nodes 1216–1284 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 21 of 53 in this edition
Length
502 words · 726 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.851 (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 know not, sir, But some on't, there they powr'd into his eares, Some in his nostrils, and recouer'd him; Applying but the fricace. POX o' that fricace. And since, to seeme the more officious, And flatt'ring of his health, there, they haue had (At extreme fees) the colledge of physicians Consulting on him, how they might restore him; Where, one would haue a cataplasme of spices, Another, a flayd ape clapt to his brest, A third would ha'it a dogge, a fourth an oyle With wild cats skinnes: at last, they all resolu'd That, to preserue him, was no other meanes, But some yong woman must be streight sought out, Lustie, and full of iuice, to sleepe by him; And, to this seruice (most vnhappily, And most vnwillingly) am I now imploy'd, Which, here, I thought to pre-acquaint you with, For your aduice, since it concernes you most, Because, I would not doe that thing might crosse Your ends, on whom I haue my whole dependance, sir: Yet, if I doe it not, they may delate My slacknesse to my patron, worke me out Of his opinion; and there, all your hopes, Venters, or whatsoeuer, are all frustrate. I doe but tell you, sir. Besides, they are all Now striuing, who shall first present him. Therefore— I could intreat you, briefly, conclude some-what: Preuent 'hem if you can. Death to my hopes! This is my villanous fortune! Best to hire Some common curtezan? I, I thought on that, sir. But they are all so subtle, full of art, And age againe doting, and flexible, So as—I cannot tell—we may perchance Light on a queane, may cheat vs all. 'Tis true. No, no: it must be one, that ha's no trickes, sir, Some simple thing, a creature, made vnto it; Some wench you may command. Ha' you no kinswoman? Gods so—Thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke, thinke, sir. One o'the Doctors offer'd, there, his daughter. How! Yes, signior LVPO, the physician, His daughter? And a virgin, sir. Why? Alasse He knowes the state of's bodie, what it is; That nought can warme his bloud, sir, but a feuer; Nor any incantation rayse his spirit: A long forgetfulnesse hath seiz'd that part. Besides, sir, who shall know it? some one, or two— I pray thee giue me leaue. If any man But I had had this lucke—The thing in't selfe, I know, is nothing—Wherefore should not I As well command my bloud, and my affections, As this dull Doctor? In the point of honour, The cases are all one, of wife, and daughter. I heare him comming. Shee shall doo't: 'Tis done. Slight, if this Doctor, who is not engag'd, Vnlesse 't be for his counsell (which is nothing) Offer his daughter, what should I, that am So deeply in? I will preuent him: wretch! Couetous wretch! MOSCA, I haue determin'd. How, sir? We'll make all sure. The party, you wot of, Shall be mine owne wife, MOSCA.