Webster, John · published 1623 · first performed or written 1614 [1612-1614; revised 1617-23(?)] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars unassigned nearest T3 Sickness, physic and doctors · 483 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
O 'twill increase your melancholy. Thou art deceived, To hear of greater grief, would lessen mine, This is a prison? Yes, but you shall live To shake this durance off. Thou art a fool, The Robin redbreast, and the Nightingale, Never live long in cages. Pray dry your eyes. What think you of Madam? Of nothing: When I muse thus, I sleep. Like a madman, with your eyes open? Dost thou think we shall know one another, In th'other world? Yes, out of question. O that it were possible we might But hold some two days' conference with the dead. From them, I should learn somewhat I am sure I never shall know here: I'll tell thee a miracle, I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. Th'heaven o'er my head, seems made of molten brass. The earth of flaming sulphur, yet I am not mad: I am acquainted with sad misery, As the tanned galleyslave, is with his Oar, Necessity makes me suffer constantly, And custom makes it easy, who do I look like now? Like to your picture in the gallery, A deal of life in show, but none in practice: Or rather like some reverend monument Whose ruins, are even pitied. Very proper: And Fortune seems only to have her eyesight, To behold my Tragedy: How now, What noise is that? I am come to tell you, Your brother hath intended you some sport: A great Physician, when the Pope was sick Of a deep melancholy, presented him With several sorts of madmen, which wild object (Being full of change, and sport,) forced him to laugh, And so th'impostume broke: the self same cure, The Duke intends on you. Let them come in. There's a mad Lawyer, and a secular Priest, A Doctor that hath forfeited his wits By jealousy: an Astrologian, That in his works, said such a day o'th' month, Should be the day of doom; and failing of't, Ran mad: an English tailor, crazed i'th' brain, With the study of new fashion: a gentleman usher Quite beside himself, with care to keep in mind, The number of his lady's salutations; Or how do you, she employed him in each morning: A Farmer too, (an excellent knave in grain) Mad, 'cause he was hindered transportation, And let one broker, (that's mad) lose to these, you'd think the devil were among them. Sit Cariola: let them lose when you please, For I am chained to endure all your tyranny. O let us howl, some heavy note, some deadly-dogged howl, Sounding, as from the threatning throat, of beasts, and fatal fowl. As Ravens, screech-owls, Bulls, and Bears, We'll bill, and bawl our parts, Till irksome noise have cloyed your ears, and corrosived your hearts. At last whenas our choir wants breath, our bodies being blessed, We'll sing like Swans, to welcome death, and die in love and rest.
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)
O 'twill encrease your mellancholly. Thou art deceiu'd, To heare of greater griefe, would lessen mine, This is a prison? Yes, but you shall liue To shake this durance off. Thou art a foole, The Robin red-brest, and the Nightingale, Neuer liue long in cages. Pray drie your eyes. What thinke you of Madam? Of nothing▪ When I muse thus, I sleepe. Like a mad-man, with your eyes open? Do'st thou thinke we shall know one an other, In th'other world? Yes, out of question. O that it were possible we might But hold some two dayes conference with the dead. From them, I should learne somewhat I am sure I neuer shall know here: I'll tell thee a miracle, I am not mad yet, to my cause of sorrow. Th'heauen ore my head, seemes made of molton brasse. The earth of flaming sulphure, yet I am not mad: I am acquainted with sad misery, As the tan'd galley-slaue, is with his Oare, Necessity makes me suffer constantly, And custome makes it easie, who do I looke like now? Like to your picture in the gallery, A deale of life in shew, but none in practise: Or rather like some reuerend monument Whose ruines, are euen pittied. Very proper: And Fortune seemes onely to haue her eie-sight, To behold my Tragedy: How now, What noyce is that? I am come to tell you, Your brother hath entended you some sport: A great Physitian, when the Pope was sicke Of a deepe mellancholly, presented him With seuerall sorts of mad-men, which wilde obiect (Being full of change, and sport,) forc'd him to laugh, And so th'impost-hume broke: the selfe same cure, The Duke intends on you. Let them come in. There's a mad Lawyer, and a secular Priest, A Doctor that hath forfeited his wits By iealousie: an Astrologian, That in his workes, sayd such a day o'th'moneth, Should be the day of doome; and fayling of't, Ran mad: an English Taylor, crais'd i'th'braine, With the studdy of new fashion: a gentleman vsher Quite beside himselfe, with care to keepe in minde, The number of his Ladies salutations; Or how do you, she employ'd him in each morning: A Farmer too, (an excellent knaue in graine) Mad, 'cause he was hindred transportation, And let one Broaker, (that's mad) loose to these, Youl'd thinke the diuell were among them. Sit Cariola: let them loose when you please, For I am chain'd to endure all your tyranny. O let vs howle, some heauy note, some deadly-dogged howle, Sounding, as from the threatning throat, of beastes, and fatall fowle. As Rauens, Schrich-owles, Bulls, and Beares, We'll bill, and bawle our parts, Till yerk some noyce haue cloy'd your eares, and coasiu'd your hearts. At last when as our quire wants breath, our bodies being blest, We'll sing like Swans, to welcome death, and die in loue and rest.