Jonson, Ben · published 1612 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.81 · 511 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
How doth my noble Diego? And my dear Madam, Countess? Hath the Count Been courteous, Lady? liberal? and open? Donzell, me thinks you look melancholic, After your Coitum, and scurvy! Truly, I do not like the dullness of your eye: It hath a heavy cast, 'tis upsee Dutch, And says you are a lumpish Whoremaster. Be lighter, I will make your pockets so. Will you, Don Bawd, and Pickpurse? How now? Reel you? Stand up Sir, you shall find since I am so heavy, I'll give you equal weight. Help, Murder. No Sir. There's no such thing intended. A good Cart, And a clean Whip shall ease you of that fear. I am the Spanish Don, that should be cozened, Do you see? cozened. Where's your Captain Face? That parcel-broker, and whole-Baud, all Rascal. How, Surly! O, make your approach, good Captain. I'have found, from whence your Copper Rings, and Spoons Come now, wherewith you cheat abroad in Taverns. 'Twas here, you learned t' anoint your boot with Brimstone, Then rub men's Gold on't, for a kind of touch, And say 'twas nought, when you had changed the colour, That you might have't for nothing. And this Doctor, Your sooty, smoaky-bearded compear, He Will close you so much Gold, in a Bolts-head, And, on a turn, convey (i'the stead) another With sublimed Mercury, that shall burst i'the heat, And fly out all in fumo. Then weeps Mammon. Then swoons his Worship. Or he is the Faustus, That casteth figures, and can conjure, cures Plague, Piles, and Pox, by the Ephemerideses, And holds intelligence, with all the Bawds, And Midwives of three Shires. While you send in— Captain, (what is he gone?) Dam'sells with child, Wives, that are barren, or, the waiting-Maide With the Green-sickness. Nay Sir, you must tarry Though he be 'scaped; and answer, by the ears, Sir. WHy, now's the time, if ever you will quarrel Well (as they say) and be a trueborn Child. The Doctor, and your Sister both are abused. Where is he? Which is he? He is a Slave What ere he is, and the Son of a Whore. Are you The Man, Sir, I would know? I should be loath, Sir, To confess so much. Then you lie, i' your throat. How? A very errant Rogue, Sir, and a Cheater, Employed here, by another conjuror, That does not love the Doctor, and would cross him If he knew how— Sir you are abused. You lie, And 'tis no matter. Well said, Sir. He is The impudentest Rascal— You are indeed. Will you hear me, Sir? By no means. Bid him be gone. Be gone Sir, quickly. This's strange! Lady, do you inform your Brother. There is not such a Foist, in all the town, The Doctor had him, presently: And finds, yet, The Spanish Count will come, here. Bear up, Subtle. Yes Sir, he must appear, within this hour. And yet this Rogue, would come, in a disguise, By the temptation of another Spirit, To trouble our Art, though he could not hurt it.
nodes 3107–3177 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 42 of 53 in this edition
Length
511 words · 784 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.811 (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)
How doth my noble Diego? And my deare Madame, Countesse? Hath the Count Beene courteous, Lady? liberall? and open? Donzell, me thinkes you looke melancholike, After your Coitum, and scuruy! True-ly, I doe not like the dulnesse of your eye: It hath a heauy cast, 'tis vpsee Dutch, And say's you are a lumpish Whore-master. Be lighter, I will make your pockets so. Will you, Don Baud, and Pick-purse? How now? Reele you? Stand vp Sir, you shall finde since I am so heauy, I'll gi' you aequall weight. Help, Murder. No Sir. There's no such thing intended. A good Cart, And a cleane Whip shall ease you of that feare. I am the Spanish Don, that should be cossened, Doe you see? cossened. Where's your Captaine Face? That parcell-Broker, and whole-Baud, all Raskall. How, Surly! O, make your approach, good Captaine. I'haue found, from whence your Copper Rings, and Spoones Come now, wherewith you cheate abroad in Tauernes. 'Twas here, you learn'd t' annoint your boote with Brimstone, Then rub mens Gold on't, for a kinde of touch, And say 'twas naught, when you had chang'd the colour, That you might ha't for nothing. And this Doctor, Your sooty, smoaky-bearded Compeere, He Will close you so much Gold, in a Bolts-head, And, on a turne, conuay (i'the stead) another With sublim'd Mercury, that shall burst i'he heate, And flye out all in fumo. Then weepes Mammon. Then swounes his Worship. Or he is the Faustus, That casteth figures, and can coniure, cures Plague, Piles, and Poxe, by the Ephemerides, And holds intelligence, with all the Baudes, And Midwiues of three Shires. While you send in— Captaine, (what is he gone?) Dam'sells with child, Wiues, that are barren, or, the waiting-Maide With the Greene-sicknesse. Nay Sir, you must tarry Though he be scap't; and answere, by the eares, Sir. VVHy, now's the time, if euer you will quarrell Well (as they say) and be a true-borne Child. The Doctor, and your Sister both are abus'd. Where is he? Which is he? He is a Slaue What ere he is, and the Sonne of a Whore. Are you The Man, Sir, I would know? I should be loth, Sir, To confesse so much. Then you lie, i' your throte. How? A very errant Rogue, Sir, and a Cheater, Employd here, by another Coniurer, That dos not loue the Doctor, and would crosse him If he knew how— Sir you are abus'd. You lie, And 'tis no matter. Well said, Sir. He is The impudent'st Raskall— You are indeed. Will you heare me, Sir? By no meanes. Bid him be gone. Be gone Sir, quickly. This's strange! Lady, doe you informe your Brother. There is not such a Foyst, in all the towne, The Doctor had him, presently: And findes, yet, The Spanish Count will come, here. Beare vp, Subtle. Yes Sir, he must appeare, within this hower. And yet this Rogue, would come, in a disguise, By the temptation of another Spirit, To trouble our Art, though he could not hurt it.