Jonson, Ben · published 1612 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.79 · 490 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
Pray you, Sir, stay. Rather, then I'll be brayed, Sir, I'll believe, That Alchemy is a pretty kind of Game, Somewhat like Tricks o'the Cards, to cheat a man, With charming. Sir? What else are all your terms, Whereon no one o'your Writers grease with other? Of your Elixir, your Lac virgins, Your Stone, your Medicine, and your Chrysosperm, Your Sal, your Sulphur, and your Mercury, Your Oil of height, your Tree of life, your Blood, Your Marchesite, your Tutie, your Magnesia, Your Toad, your Crow, your Dragon, and your Panther, Your Sun, your Moon, your Firmament, your Adrop, Your Lato, Azoch, Zernich, Chibrit, Heautarit, And then your Red man, and your white 〈◊〉; With all your Broths, your Menstrues, and Materials, Of Piss, and Eggshells, women's terms, Man's blood, Hair o'the head, burnt Clouts, Chalk, Merds, and Clay, Powder of bones, scale of Iron, glass. And worlds of other strange Ingredients, Would burst a man to name. And all these, named, Intending but one thing: which art our Writers Used to obscure their Art. Sir, so I told him. Because the simple I diet should not learn it, And make it vulgar. Was not all the knowledge Of the Egyptians writ in mystic Symbols? Speak not the Scriptures oft in Parables? Are not the choicest Fables of the Poets, That were the Fountains, and first Springs of Wisdom, Wrapped in perplexed Allegories? I urged that. And cleared to him, that Sisyphus was damned To roll the ceaseless stone, only, because He would have made ours common. Who is this? God's precious— What do you mean? Go in, good Lady; Let me entreat you. Where's this Varlet? Sir? You very knave. Do you use me, thus? Wherein Sir? Go in, and see, you traitor. Go. who is it, Sir? Nothing Sir. Nothing. What is the matter? Good Sir! I have not seen you thus distempered. Who is't? All Arts have still had, Sir, their adversaries, But ours the most ignorant. What now? 'Twas not my fault, Sir, she would speak with you. Would she Sir? Follow me. stay Lungs. I dare not Sir. Stay man, what is she? A Lords Sister, Sir. How! Pray thee stay? She's mad Sir, & sent hither— (He'll be mad too. I warrant thee.) Why sent hither? Sir, to be cured. Why Rascal! Lo you. Here Sir. Fore-God, a Bradamante, a brave piece! heart, this is a bawdy-house. I'll be burnt else. O, by this light, no. Do not wrong him. he's Too scrupulous, that way: It is his vice. No, he's a rare Physician, do him right. An excellent Paracelsian! and has done Strange cures with mineral physic. He deals all With spirits, he, He will not hear a Word Of Galen, or his tedious Recipees. How now, Lungs! Softly, Sir, speak softly. I meant To ha' told your Worship all. This must not hear, No, he will not be gulled; let him alone.
nodes 1188–1265 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 17 of 53 in this edition
Length
490 words · 762 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.789 (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)
Pray you, Sir, stay. Rather, then I'll be bray'd, Sir, I'll beleeue, That Alchemie is a pretty kinde of Game, Somewhat like Tricks o'the Cards, to cheat a man, With charming. Sir? What else are all your Term, Whereon no one o'your Writers grees with other? Of your Elixir, your Lac virginis, Your Stone, your Med'cine, and your Chrysosperme, Your Sal, your Sulphur, and your Mercurie, Your Oyle of height, your Tree of life, your Blood, Your Marchesite, your Tutie, your Magnesia, Your Toade, your Crow, your Dragon, and your Panthar, Your Sunne, your Moone, your Firmament, your Adrop, Your Lato, Azoch, Zernich, Chibrit, Heautarit, And then your Red man, and your white ; With all your Broathes, your Mnstrues, and Materialls, Of Pisse, and Egge-shells, Womens termes, Mans blood, Hayre o'the head, burnt Cloutes, Chalke, Merds, and Clay, Poulder of bones, scalings of Iron, glasse. And worlds of other strange Ingredients, Would burst a man to name. And all these, nam'd, Intending but one thing: which art our Writers Vs'd to obscure their Art. Sir, so I told him. Because the simple I diot should not learne it, And make it vulgar. Was not all the knowledge Of the Aegyptians writ in mystick Symboles? Speake not the Scriptures oft in Parables? Are not the choysest Fables of the Poets, That were the Fountaines, and first Springs of Wisedome, Wrapt in perplexed Allegories? I vrg'd that. And clear'd to him, that Sisiphus was damn'd To roule the ceaslesse stone, onely, because He would haue made ours common. Who is this? God's precious—What doe you meane? Goe in, good Lady; Let me entreat you. Where's this Varlet? Sir? You very knaue. Doe you vse mee, thus? Wherein Sir? Goe in, and see, you traytor. Goe. who is it, Sir? Nothing Sir. Nothing. What is the matter? Good Sir! I haue not seene you thus distemp'red. Who is't? All Artes haue still had, Sir, their aduersaries, But ours the most ignorant. What now? 'Twas not my fault, Sir, she would speake with you. Would she Sir? Follow me. stay Lungs. I dare not Sir. Stay man, what is she? A Lords Sister, Sir. How! Pray thee stay? She's mad Sir, & sent hether— (He'll be mad too. I warrant thee.) Why sent hether? Sir, to be cur'd. Why Raskall! Loe you. Here Sir. Fore-God, a Braante, a braue piece! Hart, this is a baudy-House. I'll be burnt else. O, by this light, no. Doe not wrong him. H'is Too scrupulous, that way: It is his vice. No, h'is a rare Phisition, doe him right. An excellent Paracelsian! and has done Strange cures with minerall phisick. He deales all With spirits, he, He will not heare a Word Of Galen, or his tedious Recipee's. How now, Lungs! Softly, Sir, speake softly. I meant To ha' told your Worship all. This must not heare, No, he will not be gull'd; let him alone.