Dekker, Thomas / Massinger, Philip · published 1622 · first performed or written 1620 [licensed for stage, Oct 6; revised and re-licensed for stage, Jul 7, 1624] (Annals) tragedy · Red Bull (Revels) Company (first) unassigned nearest T3 Sickness, physic and doctors · 477 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
Go get your clothes, turn up your glass of youth, And let the sands run merrily, nor do I care From what a lavish hand your money flies, So you give none away, feed beggars. Hang 'em. And to the scrubbing poor. I'll see 'em hanged first. One service you must do me. Anything. Your Mistress Dorothea, ere she suffers, Is to be put to tortures, have you hearts To tear her into shrieks, to fetch her soul Up in the Pangs of death, yet not to die. Suppose this she, and that I had no hands, here's my teeth. Suppose this she, and that I had no teeth, here's my nails. But will not you be there sir. No, not for hills of diamonds, the grand Master Who schools her in the Christian discipline, Abhors my company; should I be there, You'd think all hell broke loose, we shall so quarrel. Ply you this business; he, her flesh who spares Is lost, and in my love never more shares. Here's a Master you rogue. Sure lie cannot choose but have a horrible number of servants. O You that are half gods, lengthen that life Their deities lend us, turn over all the volumes Of your mysterious AEsculapian science T'encrease the number of this young man's days, And for each minute of his time prolonged, Your fee shall be a piece of Roman gold With Caesar's stamp, such as he sends his Captains When in the wars they earn well: do but save him, And as he is half myself, be you all mine. What art can do, we promise: physics hand As apt is to destroy, as to preserve, If heaven make not the medicine; all this while Our skill hath combat held with his disease, But 'tis so armed, and a deep melancholy To be such in part with death, we are in fear The grave must mock our labours. I have been His keeper in this sickness, with such eyes As I have seen my mother watch o'er me, And from that observation sure I find, It is a Mid wife must deliver him. Is he with child, a Mid wife: Yes, With child, And will I fear lose life if by a woman He is not brought to bed: stand by his Pillow Some little while and in his broken slumbers Him shall you hear cry out on Dorothea, And when his arms fly open to catch her, Closing together, he falls fast asleep, Pleased with embracings of her airy form; Physicians but torment him, his disease Laughs at their gibberish language, let him hear The voice of Dorothea, nay but the name, He starts up with high colour in his face, She or none cures him, and how that can be, (The Princess strict command, barring that happiness) To me impossible seems.
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)
Go get your clothes, turne vp your glasse of youth, And let the sands run merily, nor do I care From what a lauish hand your money flies, So you giue none away, feed beggers. Hang 'em. And to the scrubbing poore. Ile see 'em hangd first. One seruice you must do me. Anything. Your Mistresse Dorothea, ere she suffers, Is to be put to tortures, haue you hearts To teare her into shreekes, to fetch her soule Vp in the Pangs of death, yet not to die. Suppose this shee, and that I had no hands, heere's my teeth. Suppose this she, and that I had no teeth, heere's my nailes. But will not you be there sir. No, not for hils of diamonds, the grand Master Who schooles her in the Christian discipline, Abhorres my company; should I be there, You'd thinke all hell broke loose, we shall so quarrell. Plie you this businesse; he, her flesh who spares Is lost, and in my loue neuer more shares. Here's a Master you rogue. Sure lie cannot chuse but haue a horrible number of seruants. O You that are halfe gods, lengthen that life Their dieties lend vs, turne ore all the volumes Of your mysterious AEsculapian science T'encrease the number of this yong mans dayes, And for each minute of his time prolong'd, Your fee shall be a peece of Romane gold With Caesars stampe, such as he sends his Captaines When in the warres they earne well: do but saue him, And as he is halfe my selfe, be you all mine. What art can do, we promise: phisickes hand As apt is to destroy, as to preserue, If heauen make not the medicine; all this while Our skill hath combat held with his disease, But tis so armd, and a deepe melancholy To be such in part with death, we are in feare The graue must mocke our labours. I haue beene His keeper in this sicknesse, with such eyes As I haue seene my mother watch ore me, And from that obseruation sure I finde, It is a Mid wife must deliuer him. Is he with child, a Mid wife: Yes, With child, And will I feare lose life if by a woman He is not brought to bed: stand by his Pillow Some little while and in his broken slumbers Him shall you heare cry out on Dorothea, And when his armes flye open to catch her, Closing together, he falls fast asleepe, Pleas'd with embracings of her airy forme; Physicians but torment him, his disease Laughs at their gibrish language, let him heare The voyce of Dorothea, nay but the name, He starts vp with high colour in his face, Shee or none cures him, and how that can be, (The Princesse strick't command, barring that happines) To me impossible seemes.