Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men unassigned nearest T56 Magic, spells and conjuring · 484 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.
Sulphur o'the fat, and earthy part: the one (Which is the last) supplying the place of male, The other of the female, in all metals. Some do believe hermaphrodeity, That both do act, and suffer. But, these two Make the rest ductile, malleable, extensive. And, even in gold, they are; for we do find Seeds of them, by our fire, and gold in them: And can produce the species of each metal More perfect thence, than nature doth in earth. Beside, who doth not see, in daily practice, Art can beget bees, hornets, beetles, wasps, Out of the carcases, and dung of creatures; Yea, scorpions, of an herb, being rightly placed: And these are living creatures, far more perfect, And excellent, than metals. Well said, father! Nay, if he take you in hand, sir, with an argument, he'll bray you in a mortar. 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 'grees 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 woman, With all your broths, your menstrues, and materials, Of piss, and eggshells, women's terms, man's blood, Hair o'the head, burned clouts, chalk, merds, and clay, powder of bones, scalings 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 idiot 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's 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.
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)
Sulphure o'the fat, and earthy part: the one (Which is the last) supplying the place of male, The other of the female, in all mettalls. Some doe beleeue hermaphrodeitie, That both doe act, and suffer. But, these two Make the rest ductile, malleable, extensiue. And, euen in gold, they are; for we doe find Seedes of them, by our fire, and gold in them: And can produce the species of each mettall More perfect thence, then nature doth in earth. Beside, who doth not see, in daily practice, Art can beget bees, hornets, beetles, waspes, Out of the carcasses, and dung of creatures; Yea, scorpions, of an herbe, being ritely plac'd: And these are liuing creatures, far more perfect, And excellent, then mettalls. Well said, father! Nay, if he take you in hand, sir, with an argument, Hee'll bray you in a morter. 'Pray you, sir, stay. Rather, then I'll be brai'd, sir, I'll beleeue, That Alchemie is a pretty kind of game, Somewhat like tricks o' the cards, to cheat a man, With charming. Sir? What else are all your termes, 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 bloud, 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 woman, With all your broths, your menstrues, and materialls, Of pisse, and egge-shells, womens termes, mans bloud, Haire o'the head, burnt clouts, 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 idiot should not learne it, And make it vulgar. Was not all the knowledge Of the Egyptians writ in mystick symboles? Speake not the Scriptures, oft, in parables? Are not the choisest 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 SISIPHVS 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 intreat you. Where's this varlet? Sir? You very knaue! doe you vse me, thus? Wherein, sir? Goe in, and ſee, you traitor. Goe. Who is it, ſir? Nothing, ſir. Nothing. What's the matter? good, ſir! I haue not ſeene you thus diſtemp'red. Who is't? All arts haue ſtill had, ſir, their aduerſaries, But ours the moſt ignorant. What now? 'Twas not m;y fault, ſir, ſhee would ſpeake with you.