Webster, John · published 1623 · first performed or written 1614 [1612-1614; revised 1617-23(?)] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars T26 Devils, hell and fiends typicality 0.76 · 463 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T26: devil, hell, devils, sure, soul, fiend, sr, wife, lord, men.
Doomsday not come yet? I'll draw it nearer by a perspective, or make a glass, that shall set all the world on fire upon an instant: I cannot sleep, my pillow is stuffed with a litter of Porcupines. Hell is a mere glass-house, where the devils are continually blowing up women's souls, on hollow irons, and the fire never goes out. I will lie with every woman in my parish the tenth night: I will tithe them over like haycocks. Shall my Pothecary outgo me, because I am a Cuckold? I have found out his roguery: he makes alum Of his wife's urine, and sells it to Puritans, that have sore Throats with overstraining. I have skill in heraldry. Hast? You do give for your crest, a woodcock's head, with the Brains picked out on't, you are a very ancient Gentleman. Greek is turned Turk, we are only to be saved by the Helvetian translation. Come on Sir, I will lay the law to you. Oh, rather lay a corazive, the law will eat to the bone. He that drinks but to satisfy nature is damned. If I had my glass here, I would show a sight should make All the women here, call me mad Doctor. What's he, a rope-maker? No, no, no, a snuffling knave, that while he shows the Tombs, will have his hand in a wench's placket. Woe, to the caroche, that brought home my wife from The Masque, at three o'clock in the morning, it had a large Featherbed in it. I have paired the devil's nails forty times, roasted them In Ravens eggs, and cured agues with them. Get me three hundred milch bats, to make possets, To procure sleep. All the College may throw their caps at me, I have made a Soap-boiler costive, it was my masterpiece: Is he mad to? Pray question him: I'll leave you. I am come to make thy tomb. Hah, my tomb? Thou speak'st, as if I lay upon my death bed, Gasping for breath: dost thou perceive me sick? Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sickness is insensible. Thou art not mad sure, dost know me? Yes. Who am I? Thou art a box of wormseed at best, but a salvatory Of green mummy: what's this flesh? a little curdled milk, Fantastical puff-paste: our bodies are weaker than those Paper prisons boys use to keep flies in: more contemptible: Since ours is to preserve earthworms: didst thou ever see A Lark in a cage? such is the soul in the body: this world Is like her little turf of grass, and the Heaven o'er our heads, Like her looking glass, only gives us a miserable knowledge Of the small compass of our prison. Am not I, thy Duchess?
Blackfriars;Globe;Indoor Professional;Outdoor Professional
Genre (British Drama)
tragedy
Play type
Adult Professional;Professional
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 858 · TCP A14872 · DEEP 714
Edition role
Representative edition — used in the analysis
Position
nodes 2210–2260 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 32 of 47 in this edition
Length
463 words · 635 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T26 — Devils, hell and fiendscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.757 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T23 · seed 44: T23 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Doomes-day not come yet? I'll draw it neerer by a perspectiue, or make a glasse, that shall set all the world on fire vpon an instant: I cannot sleepe, my pillow is stuff't with a littour of Porcupines. Hell is a meere glasse-house, where the diuells are continually blowing vp womens soules, on hollow yrons, and the fire neuer goes out. I will lie with euery woman in my parish the tenth night: I will tithe them ouer like hay-cockes. Shall my Pothecary out-go me, because I am a Cuck-old? I haue found out his roguery: he makes allom Of his wiues vrin, and sells it to Puritaines, that haue sore Throates with ouer-strayning. I haue skill in Harroldry. Hast? You do giue for your creast, a wood-cockes head, with the Braines pickt out on't, you are a very ancient Gentleman. Greeke is turn'd Turke, we are onely to be sau'd by the Heluetian translation. Come on Sir, I will lay the law to you. Oh, rather lay a coraziue, the law will eate to the bone. He that drinkes but to satisfie nature is damn'd. If I had my glasse here, I would shew a sight should make All the women here, call me mad Doctor. What's he, a rope-maker? No, no, no, a snufling knaue, that while he shewes the Tombes, will haue his hand in a wenches placket. Woe, to the Caroach, that brought home my wife from The Masque, at three a clocke in the morning, it had a large Feather-bed in it. I haue paired the diuells nayles forty times, roasted them In Rauens egges, and cur'd agues with them. Get me three hundred milch bats, to make possets▪ To procure sleepe. All the Colledge may throw their caps at me, I haue made a Soape-boyler costiue, it was my master-peece: Is he mad to? 'Pray question him: I'll leaue you. I am come to make thy tombe. Hah, my tombe? Thou speak'st, as if I lay vpon my death bed, Gasping for breath: do'st thou perceiue me sicke? Yes, and the more dangerously, since thy sicknesse is insensible. Thou art not mad sure, do'st know me? Yes. Who am I? Thou art a box of worme-seede at best, but a saluatory Of greene mummey: what's this flesh? a little cruded milke, Phantasticall puffe-paste: our bodies are weaker then those Paper prisons boyes vse to keepe flies in: more contemptible: Since ours is to preserue earth-wormes: didst thou euer see A Larke in a cage? such is the soule in the body: this world Is like her little turfe of grasse, and the Heauen ore our heades, Like her looking glasse, onely giues vs a miserable knowledge Of the small comsse of our prison. Am not I, thy Duchesse?