The White Devil (Vittoria Corombona) · chunk 12 of 49
Webster, John · published 1612 · first performed or written 1612 [Winter 1612-1613] (Annals) tragedy · Queen Anne's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.76 · 490 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
How? near more lie with him, And this divorce shall be as truly kept, As if in thronged Court, a thousand ears Had heard it, and a thousand lawyer's hands, Sealed to the separation. near lie with me? Let not my former dotage, Make thee an unbeliever, this my vow Shall never on my soul be satisfied With my repentance, manet alta mente repositum. Now by my birth you are a foolish, mad, And jealous woman. You see 'tis not my seeking. Was this your circle of pure unicorns horn, You said should charm your Lord; now horns upon thee, For jealousy deserves them, keep your vow, And take your chamber. No sir I'll presently to Padua, I will not stay a minute. O good Madame. 'Twere best to let her have her humour. Some half days journey will bring down her stomach, And then she'll turn in post. To see her come, To my Lord Cardinal for a dispensation Of her rash vow will beget excellent laughter. " Unkindness do thy office, poor heart break, Those are the killing griefs which dare not speak. Camill's come my Lord. Where's the commission? 'tis here. Give me the Signet. My Lord do you mark their whispering, I will compound a medicine out of their two heads, stronger than garlic, deadlier than stibium, the Cantarides which are scarce seen to stick upon the flesh when they work to the heart, shall not do it with more silence or invisible cunning. About the murder. They are sending him to Naples, but I'll send him to Candy, her's another property to. O the Doctor, A poor quacksalving knave, my Lord, one that should have been lashed for's lechery, but that he confessed a judgement, had an execution laid upon him, and so put the whip to a nonplus. And was confin'd, my Lord, by an arranter knave than myself, and made pay all the colourable execution. He will shoot pills into a man's guts, shall make them have more ventages than a cornet or a lamprey, he will poison a kiss, and was once minded, for his Masterpiece, because Ireland breeds no poison, to have prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniards fart that should have poisoned all Dublin. O Saint Anthony fire: Your Secretary is merry my Lord: O thou cursed antipathy to nature, look his eyes bloodshed like a needle a Chirurgeon stitcheth a wound with, let me embrace thee toad, & love thee o thou abominable loathsome gargarism, that will fetch up lungs, lights, heart, and liver by scruples. No more, I must employ thee honest Doctor, You must to Padua and by the way, use some of your skill for us. Sir I shall. But for Camillo? He dies this night by such a politic strain, Men shall suppose him by's own engine slain. But for your Duchess death. I'll make her sure Small mischiefs are by greater made secure.
nodes 681–731 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 12 of 49 in this edition
Length
490 words · 654 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.763 (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? nere more lie with him, And this diuorce shall be as truly kept, As if in thronged Court, a thousand eares Had heard it, and a thousand Lawyers hands, Seal'd to the separation. Nere lie with me? Let not my former dotage, Make thee an vnbeleuer, this my vow Shall neuer on my soule be satisfied With my repentance, manet alta mente repositum. Now by my birth you are a foolish, mad, And iealous woman. You see 'tis not my seeking. Was this your circle of pure Vnicornes horne, You said should charme your Lord; now hornes vpon thee, For iealousy deserues them, keepe your vow, And take your chamber. No sir I'le presently to Padua, I will not stay a minute. O good Madame. 'Twere best to let her haue her humor. Some halfe daies iourney will bring downe her stomacke, And then she'le turne in post. To see her come, To my Lord Cardinall for a dispensation Of her rash vow will beget excellent laughter. "Vnkindnesse do thy office, poore heart breake, "Those are the killing greifes which dare not speake. Camill's come my Lord. Where's the commission? Tis here. Giue me the Signet. My Lord do you marke their whispering, I will compound a medicine out of their two heads, stronger then garlick, deadlier then stibium, the Cantarides which are scarce seene to sticke vpon the flesh when they work to the heart, shall not do it with more silence or inuisible cunning. About the murder. They are sending him to Naples, but I'le send him to Candy, her's another property to. O the Doctor, A poore quackesaluing knaue, my Lord, one that should haue bene lasht for's letchery, but that he confest a iudgement, had an execution laid vpon him, and so put the whip to a non-plus. And was consin'd, my Lord, by an arranter knaue then my selfe, and made pay all the coulourable execution. He will shoot pils into a mans guts, shall make them haue more ventages then a cornet or a lamprey, hee will poyson a kisse, and was once minded, for his Master-peece, because Ireland breeds no poyson, to haue prepared a deadly vapour in a Spaniards fart that should haue poison'd all Dublin. O Saint Anthony fire: Your Secretary is merry my Lord: O thou cursed antipathy to nature, looke his eyes bloud-shed like a needle a Chirurgeon stitcheth a wound with, let me embrace thee toad, & loue thee ô thou abhominable lothsome gargarisme, that will fetch vp lungs, lights, heart, and liuer by scruples. No more, I must employ thee honest Doctor, You must to Padua and by the way, vse some of your skil for vs. Sir I shall. But for Camillo? He dies this night by such a polliticke straine, Men shall suppose him by's owne engine slaine. But for your Dutchesse death. I'le make her sure Small mischiefes are by greater made secure.