The Inner-Temple Masque, or The Masque of Heroes · chunk 1 of 5
Middleton, Thomas · published 1619 · first performed or written 1619 [Jan 6-Feb 2] (Annals) masque T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.78 · 461 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
I Have seen the old year fairly buried, Good Gentleman he was, but toward his end Full of Diseases, he kept no good Diet, He Loved a wench in Iune, (which we account wild, And got the latter end of May with child; That was his fault, and many an old year smells on't. How now? who's 'tis? oh, one ath' fasting-days That followed him to his grave; I know him by his gauntness, his thin chitterlings, He would undo a Tripe-wise; Fasting-day! Why art so heavy? Oh, sweet Doctor Almanac, I have lost a dear old Master, beside Sir, I have been out of service, all this Kersmas; Nobody minds Fasting day, I have scarce been thought upon o' Friday nights; And because Kersmas this year fell upon't, The Fridays have been ever since so proud They scorn my company, the butcher's boys At Temple-bar, set their great Dogs upon me, I dare not walk abroad, nor be seen yet, The very Poulters Girls throw rotten Eggs at me, Nay Fishstreete loves me, e'en but from teeth outward, (The nearest Kin I have) looks shy upon me, As if t'had forgot me, I met Plumporridge now, My big-swollen Enemy, he's plump and lusty, The only man in place, sweet Master Doctor, Prefer me to the New-Year, you can do't. When can I do't sir? you must stay till Lent. Till Lent, you kill my heart, sweet M. Doctor, Thrust me into Candlemas Eue, I do beseech you. Away, Candlemas Eue will never bear thee i' these days, 'tis so frampold, the Puritans will never yield to't. Why theyare fat enough. Here comes Plumporridge. ay, he's sure of welcome; methinks he moves like one of the great Porridge Tubs, going to the Counter. Oh killing cruel sight, yonder's a Fasting day: A lean spiny Rascal with a Dog in's belly, his very Bowels bark with hunger; avaunt, thy Breath stinks, I do not love to meet thee fasting, thou art nothing but wind, thy stomach's full of Farts, as if they had lost their way, and thou made with the wrong end upward, like a Dutch Maw, that discharges still intoth' Mouth! Why thou whoreson Breakfast, Dinner, Nuncheons, Supper and Beaver, Cellar, Hall, Kitchen, and Wet-larder. Sweet Master Doctor, look quickly upon his Water, that I may break the Urinal about his pate. Nay friendship, friendship. Never Master Doctor, with any Fastingday, persuade me not. Nor any thing belongs to Ember-weeke. And if I take against a thing, I'm stomachful, I was borne an Anabaptist, a fell foe, To fish and Fridays, Pig's my absolute Sweetheart. And shall I wrong my Love, and cleave to Saltfish! Commit adultery with an Egg and Butter? Well setting this apart, whose water's this sir?
Occasional;Nonprofessional;University/Inns of Court
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 806 · TCP A07503 · DEEP 668
Edition role
Representative edition — used in the analysis
Position
nodes 0–44 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 1 of 5 in this edition
Length
461 words · 679 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.776 (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)
I Haue ſeene the old yeere fairely buried, Good Gentleman he was, but toward his end Full of Diſeaſes, he kept no good Diet, He Lou'd a wench in Iune, (which we' count Vilde, And got the latter end of May with childe; That was his fault, and many an old yeere ſmels on't. How now? who's t'is? oh, one ath' Faſting-dayes That followed him to his graue; I know him by his gauntnes, his thin chitterlings, He would vndoe a Tripe-wiſe; Faſting-day! Why art ſo heauie? Oh, ſweete Doctor Almanacke, I haue loſt a deare old Maſter, beſide Sir, I haue beene out of ſeruice, all this Kerſmas; No-body minds Faſting day, I haue ſcarce bin thought vpon a' Fryday nights; And becauſe Kerſmas this yeere fell vpon't, The Frydayes haue beene euer ſince ſo proud They ſcorne my companie, the Butchers boyes At Temple-Barre, ſet their great Dogges vpon me, I dare not walke abroad, nor be ſeene yet, The very Poulters Girles throw rotten Egges at me, Nay Fiſhſtreete loues me, e'en but frō teeth outward, (The neereſt Kin I haue) lookes ſhye vpon me, As if t'ad forgot me, I met Plumporridge now, My big-ſwolne Enemie, hee's plumpe and luſtie, The onely man in place, ſweete Maſter Doctor, Preferre me to the New-Yeere, you can doo't. When can I doo't ſir? you muſt ſtay til Lent. Till Lent, you kil my heart, ſweet M. Doctor, Thruſt me into Candlemas Eue, I doe beſeech you. Away, Candlemas Eue will neuer beare thee i' theſe dayes, 'tis ſo frampole, the Puritanes will neuer yeeld to't. Why th'are fat enough. Here comes Plumporridge. I, hee's ſure of wel-come; me thinkes hee moues like one of the great Porridge Tubs, going to the Counter. Oh killing cruel ſight, yonder's a Faſting day: A leane ſpinie Raſcall with a Dogge in's belly, his very Bowels barke with hunger; auaunt, thy Breath ſtinkes, I doe not loue to meete thee faſting, thou art nothing but wind, thy Stomack's full of Farts, as if they had loſt their way, and thou made with the wrong end vpward, like a Dutch Mawe, that diſcharges ſtill into 'th Mouth! Why thou whorſon Breakefaſt, Dinner, Nuntions, Supper and Beuer, Celler, Hall, Kitchin, and Wet-larder. Sweete Maſter Doctor, looke quickly vpon his Water, that I may breake the Vrinall about his pate. Nay friendſhip, friendſhip. Neuer Maſter Doctor, with any Faſtingday, perſwade me not. Nor any thing belongs to Ember-weeke. And if I take againſt a thing, I'me ſtomackfull, I was borne an Anabaptist, a fell foe, To fiſh and Fridayes, Pig's my abſolute Sweetheart. And ſhall I wrong my Loue, and cleaue to Saltfiſh! Commit adulterie with an Egge and Butter? Well ſetting this apart, whoſe water's this ſir?