Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T56 Magic, spells and conjuring · 502 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T56: magic, faustus, charms, charm, conjure, spirits, skill, ho, power, spells.
The decayed vestals of Pickt-hatch would thank you, That keep the fire alive, there. 'Tis the secret Of nature, naturized 'gainst all infections, Cures all diseases, coming of all causes, A month's grief, in a day; a years, in twelve: And, of what age soever, in a month. Past all the doses, of your drugging Doctors. I'll undertake, withal, to fright the plague Out o'the kingdom, in three months. And I'll Be bound, the players shall sing your praises, then, Without their poets. Sir, I'll do't. Mean time, I'll give away so much, unto my man, Shall serve th'whole city, with preservative, Weekely, each house his dose, and at the rate— As he that built the waterwork, does with water? You are incredulous. Faith, I have a humour, I would not willingly be gulled. Your stone Cannot transmute me. PERTINAX, SURLY, Will you believe antiquity? records? I'll show you a book, where MOSES, and his sister, And SOLOMON have written, of the art; I, and a treatise penned by ADAM. How! O'the Philosophers stone, and in high-Dutch. Did ADAM write, sir, in high-Dutch? He did: Which proves it was the primitive tongue. What paper? On cedar board. O that, indeed (they say) Will last 'gainst worms. 'Tis like your Irishwood, 'Gainst cobwebs. I have a piece of IASONS fleece, too, Which was no other, than a book of alchemy, Writ in large sheepskin, a good fat ram-vellam. Such was PYTHAGORA'S thigh, PANDORA's tub; And, all that fable of MEDEA'S charms, The manner of our work: The Bulls, our furnace, Still breathing fire; our argent-vive, the Dragon: The Dragon's teeth, mercury sublimate, That keeps the whiteness, hardness, and the biting; And they are gathered, into IASON's helm, (Th'alembic) and then sowed in MARS his field, And, thence, sublimed so often, till they are fixed. Both this, th'Hesperian garden, CADMUS story, IOVE's shower, the boon of MIDAS, ARGUS eyes, BOCCACE his Demogorgon, thousands more, All abstract riddles of our stone. How now? Do we succeed? Is our day come? and holds it? The evening will set red, upon you, sir; You have colour for it, crimson: the red ferment Has done his office. Three hours hence, prepare you To see projection. PERTINAX, my SURLY, Again, I say to thee, aloud, be rich. This day, thou shalt have ingots: and tomorrow, Give lords th'affront. Is it, my ZEPHYRUS, right? Blushes the bolts-head? Like a wench with child, sir, That were, but now, discovered to her master. Excellent witty Lungs! My only care is, Where to get stuff, enough now, to project on, This town will not half serve me. No, sir? Buy The covering of o' churches. That's true. Yes. Let 'em stand bare, as do their auditory. Or cap 'em, new, with shingles. No, good thatch: Thatch will lie light upo' the rafters, Lungs. Lungs, I will manumit thee, from the furnace; I will restore thee thy complexion, Puff, Lost in the embers; and repair this brain, Hurt wi' the fume o' the metals.
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)
The decay'd Vestall's of Pickt-hatch would thanke you, That keepe the fire a-liue, there. 'Tis the secret Of nature, naturiz'd 'gainst all infections, Cures all diseases, comming of all causes, A month's griefe, in a day; a yeeres, in twelue: And, of what age soeuer, in a month. Past all the doses, of your drugging Doctors. I'll vndertake, withall, to fright the plague Out o'the kingdome, in three months. And I'll Be bound, the players shall sing your praises, then, Without their poets. Sir, I'll doo't. Meane time, I'll giue away so much, vnto my man, Shall ſerue th'whole citie, with preſeruatiue, Weekely, each houſe his doſe, and at the rate— As he that built the water-worke, do's with water? You are incredulous. Faith, I haue a humor, I would not willingly be gull'd. Your ſtone Cannot tranſmute me. PERTINAX, SVRLY, Will you beleeue antiquitie? recordes? I'll ſhew you a booke, where MOSES, and his ſiſter, And SALAMON haue written, of the art; I, and a treatiſe penn'd by ADAM. How! O'the Philoſophers ſtone, and in high-Dutch. Did ADAM write, ſir, in high-Dutch? He did: Which proues it was the primitiue tongue. What paper? On cedar board. O that, indeed (they ſay) Will laſt 'gainſt wormes. 'Tis like your Iriſhwood, 'Gainſt cob-webs. I haue a peece of IASONS fleece, too, Which was no other, then a booke of alchemie, Writ in large ſheepe-skin, a good fat ram-vellam. Such was PYTHAGORA'S thigh, PANDORA's tub; And, all that fable of MEDEAS charmes, The manner of our worke: The Bulls, our fornace, Still breathing fire; our argent-viue, the Dragon: The Dragons teeth, mercury ſublimate, That keepes the whiteneſſe, hardneſſe, and the biting; And they are gather'd, into IASON's helme, (Th'alembeke) and then ſow'd in MARS his field, And, thence, ſublim'd ſo often, till they are fix'd. Both this, th'Heſperian garden, CADMVS ſtorie, IOVE's ſhower, the boone of MIDAS, ARGVS eyes, BOCCACE his Demogorgon, thouſands more, All abſtract riddles of our ſtone. How now? DOe wee ſucceed? Is our day come? and hold's it? The euening will ſet red, vpon you, ſir; You haue colour for it, crimſon: the red ferment Has done his office. Three houres hence, prepare you To ſee proiection. PERTINAX, my SVRLY, Againe, I ſay to thee, aloud, be rich. This day, thou ſhalt haue ingots: and to morrow, Giue lords th'affront. Is it, my ZEPHYRVS, right? Bluſhes the bolts-head? Like a wench with child, ſir, That were, but now, diſcouer'd to her maſter. Excellent wittie Lungs! My onely care is, Where to get ſtuffe, inough now, to proiect on, This towne will not halfe ſerue me. No, ſir? Buy The couering of o' churches. That's true. Yes. Let 'hem ſtand bare, as doe their auditorie. Or cap 'hem, new, with ſhingles. No, good thatch: Thatch will lie light vpo' the rafters, Lungs. Lungs, I will manumit thee, from the fornace; I will reſtore thee thy complexion, Puffe, Loſt in the embers; and repaire this braine, Hurt wi' the fume o' the mettalls.