Jonson, Ben · published 1616 · first performed or written 1610 (Annals) comedy · King's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.75 · 511 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.
And scrubbed, and fubbed, dear Don, before you go. You shall, in faith, my scurvy baboon Don: Be curried, clawed, and flawed, and tawed, indeed. I will the heartilier go about it now, And make the widow a punk, so much the sooner, To be revenged on this impetuous FACE: The quickly doing of it is the grace. COme lady: I knew, the Doctor would not leave, Till he had found the very nick of her fortune. To be a Countess, say you? A Spanish Countess, sir. Why? is that better than an English Countess? Better? 'Slight, make you that a question, lady? Nay, she is a fool, Captain, you must pardon her. Ask from your courtier, to your inns of courtman, To your mere milliner: they will tell you all, Your Spanish jennet is the best horse. Your Spanish Stoop is the best garb. Your Spanish beard Is the best cut. Your Spanish ruffs are the best Wear. Your Spanish Pavin the best dance. Your Spanish titillation in a glove The best perfume. And, for your Spanish pike, And Spanish blade, let your poor Captain speak. Here comes the Doctor. My most honoured lady, (For so I am now to style you, having found By this my scheme, you are to undergo An honourable fortune, very shortly.) What will you say now, if some— I ha' told her all, sir. And her right worshipful brother, here, that she shall be A Countess: do not delay 'em, sir. A Spanish Countess. Still, my scarce worshipful Captain, you can keep No secret. Well, since he has told you, madame, Do you forgive him, and I do. She shall do that, sir. I'll look to't, 'tis my charge. Well then. Nought rests But that she fit her love, now, to her fortune. Truly, I shall never brook a Spaniard. No? Never, sin' eighty-eight could I abide 'em, And that was some three year afore I was borne, in truth. Come, you must love him, or be miserable: Choose, which you will. By this good rush, persuade her, She will cry strawberries else, within this twelvemonth. Nay, shads, and mackerel, which is worse. Indeed, sir? God's lid, you shall love him, or I'll kick you. Why? I'll do as you will ha' me, brother. Do, Or by this hand, I'll maul you. Nay, good sir, Be not so fierce. No, my enraged child, She will be ruled. What, when she comes to taste The pleasures of a Countess! to be courted— And kissed, and ruffled! ay, behind the hangings. And then come forth in pomp! And know her state! Of keeping all th'idolaters o' the chamber Barer to her, then at their prayers! Is served Upon the knee! And has her pages, ushers, Footmen, and coaches— Her six mares— Nay, eight! To hurry her through London, to th'Exchange, bedlam, the China-houses— Yes, and have The citizens gape at her, and praise her tires! And my-lord's goose-turd bands, that rides with her! Most brave! By this hand, you are not my sister, If you refuse.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 2280–2356 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 31 of 40 in this edition
Length
511 words · 752 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.748 (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)
And scrub'd, and fub'd, deare Don, before you goe. You shall, in faith, my sciruie babioun Don: Be curried, claw'd, and flaw'd, and taw'd, indeed. I will the heartilier goe about it now, And make the widdow a punke, so much the sooner, To be reueng'd on this impetuous FACE: The quickly doing of it is the grace. COme ladie: I knew, the Doctor would not leaue, Till he had found the very nick of her fortune. To be a Countesse, say you? A Spanish Countesse, sir. Why? is that better then an English Countesse? Better? 'Slight, make you that a question, ladie? Nay, shee is a foole, Captaine, you must pardon her. Aske from your courtier, to your innes of court-man, To your mere millaner: they will tell you all, Your Spanish iennet is the best horse. Your Spanish Stoupe is the best garbe. Your Spanish beard Is the best cut. Your Spanish ruffes are the best Weare. Your Spanish Pauin the best daunce. Your Spanish titillation in a gloue The best perfume. And, for your Spanish pike, And Spanish blade, let your poore Captaine speake. Here comes the Doctor. My most honor'd ladie, (For so I am now to stile you, hauing found By this my scheme, you are to vnder-goe An honorable fortune, very shortly.) What will you say now, if some— I ha' told her all, sir. And her right worshipfull brother, here, that shee shall be A Countesse: doe not delay 'hem, sir. A Spanish Countesse. Still, my scarse worshipfull Captaine, you can keepe No secret. Well, since he has told you, madame, Doe you forgiue him, and I doe. Shee shall doe that, sir. I'le looke to't, 'tis my charge. Well then. Nought rests But that shee fit her loue, now, to her fortune. Truely, I shall neuer brooke a Spaniard. No? Neuer, sin' eighty-eight could I abide 'hem, And that was some three yeere afore I was borne, in truth. Come, you must loue him, or be miserable: Choose, which you will. By this good rush, perswade her, Shee will crie straw-berries else, within this twelue-month. Nay, shads, and mackrell, which is worse. Indeed, sir? Gods lid, you shall loue him, or Ile kick you. Why? Ile doe as you will ha' me, brother. Doe, Or by this hand, I'll maull you. Nay, good sir, Be not so fierce. No, my enraged child, Shee will be rul'd. What, when shee comes to tast The pleasures of a Countesse! to be courted— And kist, and ruffled! I, behind the hangings. And then come orth in pomp! And know her state! Of keeping all th'idolaters o' the chamber Barer to her, then at their prayers! Is seru'd Vpon the knee! And has her pages, huishers, Foot-men, and coaches— Her sixe mares— Nay, eight! To hurry her through London, to th'Exchange, Bet'lem, the China-houses— Yes, and haue The citizens gape at her, and praise her tyres! And my-lords goose-turd bands, that rides with her! Most braue! By this hand, you are not my suster, If you refuse.