Jonson, Ben · published 1612 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T3 Sickness, physic and doctors · 493 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
That makes it, Sir, he is so. But I buy it. My venture brings it me. He, honest wretch, A notable, superstitious, good soul, Has worn his knees bare, and his slippers bald, With prayer, and fasting for it: And Sir, let him Do't alone, for me, still. Here he comes, Not a profane word, afore him: 'Tis poison. GGod marrow, Father. Gentle Son, good morrow, And, to your friend, there. What is he, is with you? An Heretic, that I did bring along, In hope, Sir, to convert him. Son, I doubt You're covetous, that thus you meet your time I'the just point: prevent your day, at morning. This argues something, worthy of a fear Of importune, and arnall appetite. Take heed, you do not cause the blessing leave you, With your ungoverned haste. I should be sorry, To see my labours, now, e'en ●t perfection, Got by long watching, and large patience, Not prosper, where my Love, and Zeal hath plac'd'hem. Which (heaven I call to witness, with yourself, To whom, I have poured my thoughts) in all my ends, Have looked no way, but unto public good, To pious uses, and dear Charity No grown a prodigy with men. Wherein If you, my Son, should, now, prevaricate, And, to your own particular lusts, employ So great, and catholic a bliss; Be sure, A curse will follow, yea, and overtake Your subtle, and most secret ways. I know, Sir, You shall not need to fear me. I but come, To ha'you confute this Gentleman. Who is, Indeed, Sir, somewhat caustive of belief Toward your Stone. Would not be gulled. Well, Son, All that I can convince him in, is this, The Work is done: Bright Sol is in his rob. We have a medicine of the triple Soul, The glorified spirit. Thanks be to heaven, And make us worthy of it. Vlen spiegle. Anon Sir. Look well to the Register, And let your heat, still, lessen by degrees To the Aludels. Yes Sir. Did you look O'the Bolts-head yet? Which on D. Sir? I. What's the complexion? Whitish. Infuse vinegar, To draw his vola●le substance, and his tincture: And let the water in Glass E. be feltered, And put into the Gripes egg. Lute him, well; And leave him closed in Balneo. I will, Sir. What a brave language here is? next to Canting? I'have another work; you never saw, Son, That, three days since, past the Philosophers wheel, In the lent heat of Athanor; and's become Sulphur o'nature. But 'tis for me? What need you? You have enough, in that is, perfect. O, but— Why this is Covetise! No, I assure you, I shall employ it all, in pious uses, Founding of Colleges, and Grammar Schools, Marrying young Virgins, building Hospitals, And now, and then a Church. How now. Sir please you Shall I not change the filter? Marry, yes. And bring me the complexion of Glass B. Ha'you another?
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
That makes it, Sir, he is so. But I buy it. My venter brings it me. He, honest wretch, A notable, superstitious, good soule, Has worne his knees bare, and his slippers bald, With prayer, and fasting for it: And Sir, let him Do'it alone, for me, still. Here he comes, Not a prophane word, afore him: 'Tis poyson. GGod marrow, Father. Gentle Sonne, good morrow, And, to your friend, there. What is he, is with you? An Heretique, that I did bring along, In hope, Sir, to conuert him. Sonne, I doubt Yo'are couetous, that thus you meete your time I'the iust point: preuent your day, at morning. This argues something, worthy of a feare Of importune, and arnall appetite. Take heed, you doe not cause the blessing leaue you, With your vngouern'd hast. I should be sorry, To see my labours, now, eene t perfection, Got by long watching, and large patience, Not prosper, where my Loue, and Zeale hath plac'd'hem. Which (heauen I call to witnesse, with your selfe, To whom, I haue pour'd my thoughts) in all my endes, Haue look'd no way, but vnto publique good, To pious vses, and deare Charitie No growne a prodigie with men. Wherein If you, my Sonne, should, now, praeuaricate, And, to your owne particular lusts, employ So great, and catholique a blisse; Be sure, A curse will follow, yea, and ouertake Your subtle, and most secret wayes. I know, Sir, You shall not need to feare me. I but come, To ha'you confute this Gentleman. Who is, Indeed, Sir, somewhat caustiue of beleefe Toward your Stone. Would not be gull'd. Well, Sonne, All that I can conuince him in, is this, The Worke is done: Bright Sol is in his robe. We haue a med'cine of the triple Soule, The glorified spirit. Thankes be to heauen, And make vs worthy of it. Vlen spiegle. Anone Sir. Looke well to the Register, And let your heate, still, lessen by degrees To the Aludels. Yes Sir. Did you looke O'the Bolts-head yet? Which on D. Sir? I. What's the complexion? Whitish. Infuse vinegar, To draw his volale substance, and his tincture: And let the water in Glasse E. be feltred, And put into the Gripes egge. Lute him, well; And leaue him clos'd in Balneo. I will, Sir. What a braue language here is? next to Canting? I'haue another worke; you neuer saw, Sonne, That, three dayes since, past the Philosohers wheele, In the lent heate of Athanor; and's become Sulphur o'nature. But 'tis for mee? What need you? You haue inough, in that is, perfect. O, but— Why this is Couetise! No, I assure you, I shall employ it all, in pious vses, Founding of Colleges, and Grammar Schooles, Marrying yong Virgins, building Hospitals, And now, and then a Church. How now. Sir please you Shall I not change the feltre? Mary, yes. And bring me the complexion of Glasse B. Ha'you another?