Jonson, Ben · published 1612 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T3 Sickness, physic and doctors · 504 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
Yes Son, were I assured Your piety were firm, we would not want The means to glorify it. But I hope the best: I mean to tinct C. in sand-heate, tomorrow, And give him imbibition. Of white oil? No Sir ofred. F. is come over the helm too, I thank my Maker, in S. Mary's bath, And shows Lac Virgins. Blessed be heaven. I sent you of his faeces there, calc●'d. Out of that calx, I'ha'wonne the salt of Mercury. By pouring on your rectefied water? Yes, and reverberating in Athanor. How now? What colour says it? The Ground black, Sir. That's your crows head. Your Cockscomb's, is't not? No, 'Tis not perfect, would it were the Crow. That work wants something. O, I looked for this. The hay is a pitching. Are you sure, you loos'd'hem I'their own menstrue? Yes, Sir, and then married'hem, And put'hem in a Bolts-head, nipped to digestion, According as you bade me; when I set The liquor of Mars to circulation, In the same heat. The process, then, was right. Yes, by the token, Sir, the Retort broke, And what was saved, was put into the Pelican, And signed with Hermes seal. I thinke'twas so. We should have a new Amalgama. O, this Ferret Is rank as any Polecat. But I care not. Let him e'en die; we have enough, beside, In embryon. H. has his white shirt on? Yes, Sir, he's ripe for inceration; He stands warm, In his ash-fire. I would not, you should let Any die now, if I might council Sir, For lucks-sake to the rest. It is not good. He says right. ay, are you bolted? Nay, I know't Sir, I'have seen th'ill fortune. What is some three Ounces Of fresh materials? Is't no more? No more, Sir, Of Gold, t' amalgame, with some six of Mercury Away, here's Money. What will serve. Ask him, Sir. How much? Give him nine pound, you may gi'him ten. Yes twenty, and be cozened, Do. There ' 'tis. This needs not. But that you will have it, so, To see conclusions of all. For two Of our inferior works, are at fixation. A third is in Ascension. Go your ways, Ha'you set the Oil of Luna in Kemia? Yes, Sir. And the Philosopher's vinegar? I. We shall have a salad. When do you make projection? Son, be not hasty, I exalt our Medicine, By hanging him in Balneo Vaporoso; And giving him solution; then congeal him, And then dissolve him; then again congeal him; For look, how oft I iterate the work, So many times, I add unto his virtue. As, if at first, one Ounce convert a hundred, After his second loose, he'll turn a thousand; His third solution, ten: his fourth a hundred. After his fifth, a thousand thousand Ounces Of any imperfect metal, into pure Silver, or Gold, in all examinations, As good, as any of the natural Mine. Get you your stuff here, against afternoon, Your Brass, your Pewter, and your Andirons.
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)
Yes Sonne, were I assur'd Your piety were firme, we would not want The meanes to glorifie it. But I hope the best: I meane to tinct C. in sand-heate, tomorrow, And giue him imbibition. Of white oyle? No Sir ofred. F. is come ouer the helme too, I thanke my Maker, in S. Maries bath, And shewes Lac Virginis. Blessed be heauen. I sent you of his faeces there, calc'd. Out of that calx, I'ha'wonne the salt of Mercurie. By pouring on your rectefied water? Yes, and reuerberating in Athanor. How now? What colour sayes it? The Ground black, Sir. That's your Crowes head. Your Cockscomb's, ist not? No, 'Tis not perfect, would it were the Crow. That worke wants something. O, I look'd for this. The hay is a pitching. Are you sure, you loos'd'hem I'their owne menstrue? Yes, Sir, and then married'hem, And put'hem in a Bolts-head, nipp'd to digestion, According as you bad me; when I set The liquor of Mars to circulation, In the same heate. The processe, then, was right. Yes, by the token, Sir, the Retort brake, And what was sau'd, was put into the Pellicane, And sign'd with Hermes seale. I thinke'twas so. We should haue a new Amalgama. O, this Ferret Is ranke as any Pole-cat. But I care not. Let him e'ene dy; wee haue enough, beside, In Embrion. H. ha's his white shirt on? Yes, Sir, Hee's ripe for inceration; He stands warme, In his ash-fire. I would not, you should let Any dye now, if I might councell Sir, For lucks-sake to the rest. It is not good. He sayes right. I, are you bolted? Nay, I know't Sir, I'haue seene th'ill fortune. What is some three Ounces Of fresh materials? Is't no more? No more, Sir, Of Gold, t' amalgame, with some sixe of Mercuri Away, here's Money. What will serue. Aske him, Sir. How much? Giue him nine pound, you may gi'him ten. Yes twenty, and be cossend, Doe. There 'tis. This needs not. But that you will haue it, so, To see conclusions of all. For two Of our inferiour workes, are at fixation. A third is in Ascension. Goe your wayes, Ha'you set the Oyle of Luna in Kemia? Yes, Sir. And the Philosophers vinegar? I. We shal haue a sallad. When do you make proiection? Sonne, be not hasty, I exalt our Med'cine, By hanging him in Balneo Vaporoso; And giuing him solution; then congeale him, And then dissolue him; then againe congeale him; For looke, how oft I iterate the worke, So many times, I adde vnto his vertue. As, if at first, one Ounce conuert a hundred, After his second loose, he'll turne a thousand; His third solution, ten: his fourth a hundred. After his fifth, a thousand thousand Ounces Of any imperfect mettall, into pure Siluer, or Gold, in all examinations, As good, as any of the naturall Mine. Get you your stuffe here, against afternoone, Your Brasse, your Pewter, and your Andirons.