Jonson, Ben · published 1612 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.75 · 464 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
This is his worship. Is he a Doctor? Yes. And ha'you broke with him, Captain? I. And how Faith, he does make the matter, Sr. so dainty, I know not what to say. Not so, good Captain. Would I were fairly rid on't, believe me. Nay, now you grieve me Sr. Why should you wish so? I dare assure you, I'll not be ungrateful. I cannot think you will, Sr. But the Law Is such a thing— And then he says, Read's matter Falling so lately. Read? He was an Ass, And dealt Sr with a Foole. It was a Clerk, Sr. A Clerk? Nay, hear me, Sr. you know the Law Better, I think I should Sr. and the danger. You know I showed the Statute to you? You did so. And will I tell, then? By this 〈◊〉 of flesh, Would it might never wright good 〈◊〉 hand, more, If I discover. What do you think of me, That I am a Chiause? What's that? The Turk was, here. As one would say, Do you think I am a Turk? I'll tell the Doctor so. Do, good sweet Captain. Come, noble Doctor,' pray thee, let's prevail, This is the Gentleman, and he is no Chiause. Captain, I have returned you all my answer. I would do much Sr. for your love— But this I neither may, nor can. Tut, do not say so. You deal, now, with a noble fellow, Doctor, One that will thank you, richly, and he's no Chiause: Let that Sr. move you. Pray you, forbear. He has Four Angels, here. You do me wrong good Sr. Doctor, wherein? To tempt you with these spirits? To tempt my art, and love, Sir, to my peril. Fore heaven, I scarce can think you are my friend, That so would draw me to apparent danger. I draw you? A horse draw you, and a halter, You, and your Flies together. Nay, good Captain. That know no difference of men. Good words Sr. Good deeds, Sr. Doctor Dogges-mouth. 'Slight I bring you No cheating Clim-o'the-Cloughs, or Claribels. That look as big as fine, and fifty, and flush, And spit out secrets, like hot Custard Captain. Nor any melancholic under-scribe, Shall tell the Vicar: but, a special Gentle, That is the Heir to forty marks, a year, Consorts with the small Poets of the time, Is the sole hope of his old Grandmother, That knows the Law, and writes you six fair Hands, Is a fine Clerk, and has his Ciphring perfect, Will take his oath, o'the Greek Testament, If need be, in his pocket: and can court His Mistress, out of ovid. Nay, dear Captain. Did you not tell me, so? Yes, but I'd ha'you Use Mr. Doctor, with some more respect.
nodes 290–363 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 5 of 53 in this edition
Length
464 words · 668 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.749 (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)
This is his worship. Is he a Doctor? Yes. And ha'you broke with him, Captaine? I. And how Faith, he doe's make the matter, Sr. so dainty, I know not what to say. Not so, good Captaine. Would I were fayrely rid on't, beleeue me. Nay, now you grieue me Sr. Why should you wish so? I dare assure you, I'll not be vngratefull. I cannot thinke you will, Sr. But the Lawe Is such a thing—And then he sayes, Reade's matter Falling so lately. Reade? He was an Ass, And dealt Sr with a Foole. It was a Clearke, Sr. A Clearke? Nay, heare me, Sr. you know the Law Better, I thinke I should Sr. and the danger. You know I shew'd the Statue to you? You did so. And will I tell, then? By this of flesh, Would it might neuer wright good hand, more, If I discouer. What doe you thinke of me, That I am a Chiaue? What's that? The Turke was, here. As one would say, Doe you thinke I am a Turke? I'll tell the Doctor so. Doe, good sweet Captaine. Come, noble Doctor,' pray thee, let's preuaile, This is the Gentleman, and he is no Chiause. Captaine, I haue return'd you all my answere. I would doe much Sr. for your loue—But this I neither may, nor can. Tut, doe not say so. You deale, now, with a noble fellow, Doctor, One that will thanke you, richly, and h'is no Chiause: Let that Sr. moue you. Pray you, forbeare. He has Foure Angels, here. You doe me wrong good Sr. Doctor, wherein? To tempt you with these spirits? To tempt my art, and loue, Sir, to my perill. Fore heau'n, I scarse can thinke you are my friend, That so would draw me to apparant danger. I draw you? A horse draw you, and a halter, You, and your Flies together. Nay, good Captaine. That know no difference of men. Good words Sr. Good deeds, Sr. Doctor Dogges-mouth. Slight I bring you No cheating Clim-o'the-Cloughs, or Claribels. That looke as bigge as fine, and fifty, and flush, And spit out secrets, like hot Custard Captayne. Nor any melancholike vnder-Scribe, Shall tell the Vicar: but, a speciall Gentle, That is the Heire to forty markes, a yeare, Consorts with the small Poets of the time, Is the sole hope of his old Grand-Mother, That knowes the Law, and writes you sixe fayre Hands, Is a fine Clearke, and has his Ciphring perfect, Will take his oth, o'the Greeke Testament, If need be, in his pocket: and can court His Mistresse, out of Ouid. Nay, deare Captayne. Did you not tell me, so? Yes, but I'ld ha'you Vse Mr. Doctor, with some more respect.