Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.74 · 493 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
Why, how now, ABEL! Is this true? Good Captain, What must I give? Nay, I'll not counsel thee. Thou hearst, what wealth (he says, spend what thou canst) thouart like to come too. I would gi'him a crown. A crown! and toward such a fortune? heart, Thou shalt rather gihim thy shop. No gold about thee? Yes, I have a portague, I ha' kept this half year. Out on thee, NAB, 'Slight, there was such an offer— 'Shalt keepeed no longer, I'll gi'it him for thee? Doctor, NAB prays your worship, to drink this: and swears He will appear more grateful, as your skill Does raise him in the world. I would entreat Another favour of his worship. What is't, NAB? But, to look over, sir, my almanac, And cross out my ill-dayes, that I may neither Bargain, nor trust upon them. That he shall, NAB. Leave it, it shall be done, 'gainst afternoon. And a direction for his shelves. Now, NAB? Art thou well pleased, NAB? Thank, sir, both your worships. Away. Why, now, you smoky persecuter of nature! Now, do you see, that some-thing's to be done, Beside your beech-coale, and your corrosive waters, Your crosse-lets, crucibles, and cucurbites? You must have stuff, brought home to you, to work on? And, yet, you think, I am at no expense, In searching out these veins, then following 'em, Then trying 'em out. 'Fore god, my intelligence Costs me more money, than my share oft comes too, In these rare works. You're pleasant, sir. How now? WHat says, my dainty DOLKIN? Yonder fishwife Will not away. And there's your giantess, The bawd of Lambeth. heart, I cannot speak with 'em. Not, afore night, I have told 'em, in a voice, Through the trunk, like one of your familiars. But I have spied sir EPICURE MAMMON ‐ Where? Coming along, at far end of the lane, Slow of his feet, but earnest of his tongue, To one, that's with him. FACE, go you, and shift, DOL, you must presently make ready, too— Why, what's the matter? O, I did look for him With the suns rising: 'Marvel, he could sleep! This is the day, I am to perfect for him The magisterium, our great work, the stone; And yield it, made, into his hands: of which, He has, this month, talked, as he were possess; d. And, now, he's dealing pieces on't, away. methinks, I see him, entering ordinaries, Dispensing for the pox; and plaguy-houses, Reaching his dose; walking Morefields for lepers; And offering citizens-wives pomander-bracelets, As his preservative, made of the elixir; Searching the spital, to make old bawds young; And the highways, for beggars, to make rich: I see no end of his labours. He will make Nature ashamed, of her long sleep: when art, Who's but a stepdame, shall do more, than she, In her best love to mankind, ever could. If his dream last, he'll turn the age, to gold.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 631–703 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 9 of 40 in this edition
Length
493 words · 772 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.739 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
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)
Why, how now, ABEL! Is this true? Good Captaine, What muſt I giue? Nay, Ile not counſell thee. Thou hearſt, what wealth (he ſayes, ſpend what thou canſt) Th'art like to come too. I would gi'him a crowne. A crowne! 'nd toward ſuch a fortune? Hart, Thou ſhalt rather gi'him thy ſhop. No gold about thee? Yes, I haue a portague, I ha' kept this halfe yeere. Out on thee, NAB, S'light, there was ſuch an offer— 'Shalt keepe't no longer, I'll gi'it him for thee? Doctor, NAB prayes your worſhip, to drinke this: and ſweares He will appeare more gratefull, as your skill Do's raiſe him in the world. I would intreat Another fauour of his worſhip. What is't, NAB? But, to looke ouer, ſir, my almanack, And croſſe out my ill-dayes, that I may neither Bargaine, nor truſt vpon them. That he ſhall, NAB. Leaue it, it ſhall be done, 'gainſt after-noone. And a direction for his ſhelues. Now, NAB? Art thou well pleas'd, NAB? Thanke, ſir, both your worſhips. Away. Why, now, you ſmoky perſecuter of nature! Now, doe you ſee, that ſome-thing's to be done, Beſide your beech-coale, and your cor'ſiue waters, Your croſſe-lets, crucibles, and cucurbites? You muſt haue ſtuffe, brought home to you, to worke on? And, yet, you thinke, I am at no expence, In ſearching out theſe veines, then following 'hem, Then trying 'hem out. 'Fore god, my intelligence Coſts me more money, then my ſhare oft comes too, In theſe rare workes. You're pleaſant, ſir. How now? WHat ſay's, my daintie DOLKIN? Yonder fiſh-wife Will not away. And there's your gianteſſe, The bawd of Lambeth. Hart, I cannot ſpeake with 'hem. Not, afore night, I haue told 'hem, in a voice, Thorough the trunke, like one of your familiars. But I haue ſpied ſir EPICVRE MAMMON‐ Where? Comming along, at far end of the lane, Slow of his feet, but earneſt of his tongue, To one, that's with him. FACE, goe you, and ſhift, DOL, you muſt preſently make readie, too— Why, what's the matter? O, I did looke for him With the ſunnes riſing: 'Maruaile, he could ſleepe! This is the day, I am to perfect for him The magiſterium, our great worke, the ſtone; And yeeld it, made, into his hands: of which, He has, this month, talk'd, as he were poſſeſs;d. And, now, hee's dealing peeces on't, away. Me thinkes, I see him, entring ordinaries, Dispensing for the poxe; and plaguy-houses, Reaching his dose; walking more-fields for lepers; And offring citizens-wiues pomander-bracelets, As his preseruatiue, made of the elixir; Searching the spittle, to make old bawdes yong; And the high-waies, for beggars, to make rich: I see no end of his labours. He will make Nature asham'd, of her long sleepe: when art, Who's but a step-dame, shall doe more, then shee, In her best loue to man-kind, euer could. If his dreame last, hee'll turne the age, to gold.