Shakespeare, William / Wilkins, George · published 1609 · first performed or written 1608 [1606-1608] (Annals) romance · King's Men · Globe T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.81 · 510 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
Your Master will be dead ere you return, There's nothing can be ministered to Nature, That can recover him: give this to the Pothecary, And tell me how it works. Good morrow. Good morrow to your Lordship, Gentlemen, why do you stir so early? Sir, our lodgings standing bleak upon the sea, shook as the earth did quake: The very principals did seem to rend and all to topple: Pure surprise and fear, made me to quite the house. That is the cause we trouble you so early, 'tis not our husbandry. O you say well. But I much marvel that your Lordship, Having rich tire about you, should at these early hours, Shake off the golden slumber of repose; 'tis most strange Nature should be so conversant with Pain, Being thereto not compelled. I hold it ever Virtue and Cunning, Were endowments greater, than nobleness & Riches; Careless Heirs, may the two latter darken and expend; But Immortality attends the former, Making a man a god: 'tis known, I ever have studied Physic: Through which secret Art, by turning o'er Authorities, I have together with my practise, made familiar, To me and to my aid, the blessed infusions that dwells In Vegetives, in Metals, Stones: and can speak of the Disturbances that Nature works, and of her cures; which doth give me a more content in course of true delight Then to be thirsty after tottering honour, or Tie my pleasure up in silken Bags, To please the Fool and Death. Your honour has through Ephesus, Poured forth your charity, and hundreds call themselves, Your Creatures; who by you, have been restored; And not your knowledge, your personal pain, But even your Purse still open, hath built Lord Cerimon, Such strong renown, as time shall never. So, lift there. What's that? Sir, even now did the sea toss up upon our shore This Chest; 'tis of some wrack. Seted down, let's look upon't. 'tis like a Coffin, sir. What ere it be, 'tis wondrous heavy; Wrench it open straight: If the Seas stomach be o'ercharged with Gold, 'tis a good constraint of Fortune it belches upon vs. 'tis so, my Lord. How close 'tis caulkt & bottomed, did the sea cast it up? I never saw so huge a billow sir, as toast it upon shore. Wrench it open soft; it smells most sweetly in my sense. A delicate Odour. As ever hit my nostril: so, up with it. Oh you most potent Gods! what's here, a Corpse? Most strange. Shrouded in Cloth of state, balmed and entreasured with full bags of Spices, a Passport to Apollo, perfect me in the Characters: here I give to understand, If ere this Coffin drives aland; I King Pericles have lost This Queen, worth all our mundaine cost: Who finds her, give her burying, She was the Daughter of a King: Besiaes', this Treasure for a fee, The Gods requited his charity. If thou livest Pericles, thou hast a heart, That ever cracks for woe, this chanced to night. Most likely sir.
nodes 1105–1174 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 19 of 36 in this edition
Length
510 words · 713 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.808 (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)
Your Maister will be dead ere you returne, There's nothing can be ministred to Nature, That can recouer him: giue this to the Pothecary, And tell me how it workes. Good morrow. Good morrow to your Lordship, Gentlemen, why doe you stirre so early? Sir, our lodgings standing bleake vpon the sea▪ Shooke as the earth did quake: The very principals did seeme to rend and all to topple: Pure surprize and feare, made me to quite the house. That is the cause we trouble you so early, Tis not our husbandry. O you say well. But I much maruaile that your Lordship, Hauing rich tire about you, should at these early howers, Shake off the golden slumber of repose; tis most strang Nature should be so conuersant with Paine, Being thereto not compelled. I hld it euer Vertue and Cunning, Were endowments greater, then Noblenese & Riches; Carelesse Heyres, may the two latter darken and expend; But Immortalitie attendes the former, Making a man a god: T'is knowne, I euer haue studied Physicke: Through which secret Art, by turning ore Authorities, I haue togeather with my practize, made famyliar, To me and to my ayde, the blest infusions that dwels In Vegetiues, in Mettals, Stones: and can speake of the Disturbances that Nature works, and of her cures; which doth giue me a more content in course of true delight Then to be thirsty after tottering honour, or Tie my pleasure vp in silken Bagges, To please the Foole and Death. Your honour has through Ehesus, Poured foorth your charitie, and hundreds call themselues, Your Creatures; who by you, haue been restored; And not your knowledge, our personall payne, But euen your Purse still open, hath built Lord Cerimn, Such strong renowne, as time shall neuer. So, lift there. What's that? Sir, euen now did the sea tosse vp vpon our shore This Chist; tis of some wracke. Set't downe, let's looke vpon't. T'is like a Coin, sir. What ere it be, t'is woondrous heauie; Wrench it open straight: If the Seas stomacke be orecharg'd with Gold, T'is a good constraint of Fortune it belches vpon vs. T'is so, my Lord. How close tis caulkt & bottomed, did the sea cast it vp? I neuer saw so huge a billow sir▪ as tost it vpon shore. Wrench it open soft; it smels most sweetly in my sense. A delicate Odour. As euer lt m nostrill: so, vp with it. Oh you most potent Gods! what's here, a Corse? Most strange. Shrowded in Cloth of state, balmed and entreasured with full bagges of Spices, a Pasport to Apollo, perfect mee in the Characters: Heere I giue to vnderstand, If er this Coffin driues alaud; I King Pericles haue lost This Queen, worth all our mundaine cost: Who finds her, giue her burying, She was the Daughter of a King: Besiaes, this Treasure for a ee, The Gos requit his charitie. If thou liuest Pericles, thou hast a heart, That euer cracks for woe, this chaunc'd to night. Most likely sir.