Fletcher, John · published 1610 · first performed or written 1608 [1608-1609] (Annals) pastoral; tragicomedy · Children of the Queen's Revels T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.77 · 509 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
I am the satyr that did fill, Your lap with early fruit and will, When I hap to gather more, Bring ye better, and more store: Yet I come not empty now, See a blossom from the bow, But be shrew his heart that pulled it, And his perfect Sight that Culled it, From the other springing blooms For a sweeter youth the Gwomes Cannot show me nor the downs: Nor the many neighbouring Towns, Low in yonder glade I found him, Softly in mine Arms I bound him, Hither have I brought him sleeping, In a Trance, his wounds fresh weeping, In remembrance such youth may Spring and perish in a Day. Satire: they wrong thee, that do term thee rude Though thou be'st outward rough and tawny hued: Thy manners are as gentle and as fair, As his who brags himself, borne only heir, To all Humanity: let me see thy wound: This Herb will stay the Currant being bound, Fast to the Orifice, and this restrain, ulcers, and swellings, and such inward pain, As the cold Air hath forced into the sore, This to, draw out such putrefying gore, As inward falls. Heaven grant it may do good, Fairly wipe away the blood, Hold him gently till I fling, Water of a virtuous spring: On his Temples turn him twice: To the Moon beams pinch him thrice: That the labouring soul may draw. From his great eclipse. I saw. His Eyelids moving. Give him breath, All the danger of cold death: Now is vanished, with this plaster: And this unction do I master: All the festered ill that may: Give him grief another day. See he gathers up his sprite And begins to hunt for light, Now a gapes and breathes again: How the blood runs to the vain: That east was emply. Oh my heart, My dearest, dearest Cloe O the smart, Runs, through my side: I feel some pointed thing, Pass through my Bowels, sharper than the sting, Of Scorpion. Pan, preserve me, what are you, Do not hurt me. I am true, To my Cloe though she fly And leave me to this Destiny, There she stands, and will not lend, Her smooth white hand to help her friend, But I am much mistaken, for that face, Bears more Austerity and modest grace, More reproving and more awe. Then these Eyes yet ever saw, In my Cloe, oh my pain: Eagerly Renews again: Give me your help for his sake you love best: Shepherd thou Canst not possible take rest. Till thou hast laid a side all heats, desires, Provoking thoughts, that stir up lusty fires. Commerce with wanton Eyes: strong blood and will, To execute these must be purged until, The vain grow Whiter than Repent and pray: Great Pan, to keep you from the like decay, And I shall undertake your cure with ease. Till when this virtuous Plasters will displease, Your tender sides. give me your hand and rise. help him a little Satire. for his Thighs. Yet are feeble.
nodes 1627–1706 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 25 of 40 in this edition
Length
509 words · 680 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.771 (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 am the Statyre that did fill, Your lapp with early fruite and will, When I happ to gather more, Bring yee better, and more store: Yet I come not empty now, See a blossome from the bowe, But be shrewe his hart that pulld it, And his perfect Sight that Culld it, From the other springinge bloomes For a sweeter youth the Gwomes Cannot show mee nor the downes: Nor the many neighbouring Townes, Low in yonder glade I found him, Softly in mine Armes I bound him, Hether haue I brought him sleeping, In a Trance, his wounds fresh weepinge, In remembrance such youth may Spring and perish in a Day. Satyre: they wrong thee, that doe tearme thee rude Though thou beest outward rough and tawny hued: Thy manners are as gentle and as fayre, As his who bragges himselfe, borne only heyre, To all Humanity: let mee see thie wound: This Hearb will stay the Currant being bound, Fast to the Orphyse, and this restrayne, Vicers, and Swellinges, and such inward payne, As the cold Ayre hath forc'd into the sore, This to, drawe out such Putrifiing gore, As inward falls. Heauen grant it may doe good, Fayrely wipe away the blood, Hold him gently till I fling, Water of a vertuous spring: On his Temples tune him twice: To the Moone beames pinch him thrice: That the labouring soule may drawe. From his great ecclipe. I sawe. His Eye-lids moouing. Giue him breath, All the danger of cold death: Now is vanisht, with this playster: And this vnction doe I maister: All the festred ill that maye: Giue him greife another day. See hee gathers vp his spright And begins to hunt for light, Now a gapes and breathes agayne: How the bloud runns to the vayne: That east was emply. Oh my hart, My dearest, dearest Cloe O the smart, Runnes, through my side: I feele some poynted thing, Passe through my Bowels, sharper then the stinge, Of Scorpion. Pan, preserue mee, what are you, Doe not hurt mee. I am true, To my Cloe though shee fly And leaue mee to this Destiny, There shee stands, and will not lend, Her smooth white hand to helpe her freind, But I am much mistaken, for that face, Beares more Austeritye and modest grace, More reprouing and more awe. Then theise Eyes yet euer sawe, In my Cloe, oh my payne: Eagerly Renewes againe: Giue mee your helpe for his sake you loue best: Sheapheard thou Canst not possible take rest. Till thou hast layed a syde all heates, desiers, Prouoking thoughts, that stirr vpp lusty fiers. Commerse with wanton Eyes: strong bloud and will, To execute theise must bee purg'd vntill, The vayne growe Whiter then Repent and pray: Great Pan, to keepe you from the like decaye, And I shall vndertake your cure with ease. Till when this verteous Playsters will displease, Your tender sides. giue mee your hand and rise. helpe him a little Satyre. for his Thyghes. Yet are feeble.