Jonson, Ben · published 1612 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T56 Magic, spells and conjuring · 481 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T56: magic, faustus, charms, charm, conjure, spirits, skill, ho, power, spells.
He did: Which proves it was the Primitive tongue. What Paper? On Cedar board. O that, indeed (they say) Will last against worms. 'Tis like your Irish wood Against Cobwebs. I have a piece of Iasons fleece, too, Which was no other, than a Book of Alchemy, Writ in large sheepskin, a good fat Ram-Vellam. Such was Pythagora's thigh, Pandora's tub; And, all that fable of Medea's charms, The manner of our work: The Bulls, our Furnace, Still breathing fire; our Argent-vive, the Dragon: The Dragon's teeth, Mercury sublimate, That keeps the whiteness, hardness and the biting; And they are gathered, into Jason's helm, (Th' Alembeke) and then sowed in Mars his field, And, thence, sublimed so often, till they are fixed. Both this, th' Hesperian Garden, Cadmus' story, Jove's shower, the boon of Midas, Argus' eyes, Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more, All abstract Riddles of our Stone. How now? Do we succeed? Is our day come? and holds it? The evening will set red upon you, Sir, You have colour for it, crimson, the red Ferment Has done his office. Three hours hence, prepare you To see projection. Pertinax, my Surly, Again, I say to thee, aloud: Be rich. This day, thou shalt have Ingots: and, tomorrow, Give Lords th'affront. Is it, my Zephyrus, right? Blushes the Bolts-head? Like a Wench with Child, Sir, That were, but now, discovered to her Master. Excellent witty Lungs. My only care is, Where to get stuff, enough now, to project on This town will not half serve me. No Sir? Take The covering of o'Churches. That's true Yes. Let'hem stand bare, as do their Auditory, Or cap 'em, new, with Shingles. No, good Thatch. Thatch will lie light, upo'the rafters Lungs. Lungs, I will manumit thee, from the Furnace; I will restore thee thy complexion, Puff, Lost in the embers; and repair this brain, Hurt with the fume o'the Metals. I have blown, Sir, Hard for your Worship; thrown by many a Coal, When 'twas not Beech; weighed those I put in, just, To keep your heat, still even; These bleared eyes Have waked, to read your several colours, Sir, Of the pale C●ron, the green Lion, the Crow, The Peacock's tail, the plumed Swan. And, lastly, Thou hast descried the Flower, the Sanguis Agni? Yes Sir Where's Master? At's prayers, Sir, he, Good man, he's doing his devotions, For the success. Lungs, I will set a period, To all thy labours: Thou shalt be, the Master Of my Seraglios. Good, Sir. But do you hear? I'll geld you ' Lungs. Yes, Sir. For I do mean To have a list of Wives, and Concubines, Equal with Solomon; who had the Stone Alike, with me: and I will make me, a back With the Elixir, that shall be as tough As Hercules, to encounter fifty a night. thouart sure, thou sawst it blood?
seed 43: T45 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
He did: Which proues it was the Primitiue tongue. What Paper? On Cedar board. O that, indeed (they say) Will last 'gainst wormes. 'Tis like your Irish wood 'Gainst Cobwebs. I haue a peece of Iasons fleece, too, Which was no other, then a Booke of Alchemie, Writ in large sheepe-skin, a good fat Ram-Vellam. Such was Pythagora's thigh, Pandora's tub; And, all that fable of Medeas charmes, The manner of our worke: The Bulls, our Fornace, Still breathing fire; our Argent-viue, the Dragon: The Dragons teeth, Mercurie sublimate, That keepes the whitenesse, hardnesse and the biting; And they are gather'd, into Iason's helme, (Th' Alembeke) and then sow'd in Mars his field, And, thence, sublim'd so often, till they are fix'd. Both this, th' Hesperian Garden, Cadmus story, Ioue's shower, the boone of Midas, Argus eyes, Boccace his Demogorgon, thousands more, All abstract Riddles of our Stone. How now? DOe we succeed? Is our day come? and hold's it? The euening will set red vpon you, Sir, You haue colour for it, crimson, the red Ferment Has done his office. Three howers hence, prepare you To see proiection. Pertinax, my Surly, Againe, I say to thee, aloud: Be rich. This day, thou shalt haue Ingots: and, tomorrow, Giue Lords th'affront. Is it, my Zephyrus, right? Blushes the Bolts-head? Like a Wench with Child, Sir, That were, but now, discouer'd to her Master. Excellent witty Lungs. My onely care is, Where to get stuffe, inough now, to proiect on This towne will not halfe serue me. No Sir? Take The couering of o'Churches. That's true Yes. Let'hem stand bare, as doe their Auditorie, Or cap 'hem, new, with Shingles. No, good Thatch. Thatch will lie light, vpo'the rafters Lungs. Lungs, I will manumit thee, from the Fornace; I will restore thee thy complexion, Puffe, Lost in the embers; and repayre this brayne, Hurt with the fume o'the Mettalls. I haue blowne, Sir, Hard for your Worship; throwne by many a Coale, When t'was not Beech; weigh'd those I put in, iust, To keepe your heate, still euen; These bleard eyes Haue wak'd, to reade your seuerall colours, Sir, Of the pale Cron, the greene Lion, the Crow, The Peacocks tayle, the plumed Swan. And, lastly, Thou hast descried the Flower, the Sanguis Agni? Yes Sir Where's Master? At's prayers, Sir, hee, Good man, he's doing his deuotions, For the successe. Lungs, I will set a period, To all thy labours: Thou shalt be, the Master Of my Seraglia. Good, Sir. But doe you heare? I'll geld you' Lungs. Yes, Sir. For I doe meane To haue a list of Wiues, and Concubines, Aequall with Salomon; who had the Stone Alike, with me: and I will make me, a back With the Elixir, that shall be as tough As Hercules, to encounter fifty a night. Th'art sure, thou sawst it blood?