Webster, John · published 1623 · first performed or written 1614 [1612-1614; revised 1617-23(?)] (Annals) tragedy · King's Men · Blackfriars T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.77 · 481 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
I'll second you in all danger: and (howe'er) My life keeps rank with yours You are still my loved, and best friend. Now Doctor; may I visit your Patient? If't please your Lordship: but he's instantly To take the air here in the Gallery, By my direction. Prithee, what's his disease? A very pestilent disease (my Lord) They call lycanthropia. What's that? I need a Dictionary to't. I'll tell you: In those that are possessed with't there o'erflows Such melancholy humour, they imagine Themselves to be transformed into Wolves, Steal forth to Churchyards in the dead of night, And dig dead bodies up: as two nights since One met the Duke, 'bout midnight in a lane Behind St. Marks Church, with the leg of a man Upon his shoulder; and he howled fearfully: Said he was a wolf: only the difference Was, a wolf's skin was hairy on the outside, His on the Inside: bade them take their swords, Rip up his flesh, and try: straight I was sent for, And having ministered to him, found his Grace Very well recovered. I am glad on't, Yet not without some fear Of a relapse: if he grow to his fit again I'll go a nearer way to work with him Then ever Paracelsus dreamed of: If They'll give me leave I'll buffet his madness out of him. Stand aside: he comes. Leave me. Why doth your Lordship love this solitariness? Eagles commonly fly alone: They are Crows, Daws, and starlings that flock together: Look, what's that, Follows me? Nothing (my Lord) Yes: 'Tis your shadow. Stay it, let it not haunt me. Impossible; if you move, and the Sun shine: I will throttle it. Oh, my Lord: you are angry with nothing. You are a fool: How is't possible I should catch my shadow Unless I fall upon't? When I go to Hell, I mean to carry a bribe: for look you Good gifts evermore make away, for the worst persons Rise good my Lord. I am studying the Art of Patience. 'Tis a noble Virtue; To drive six Snails before me, from this town To Mosco; neither use Goad, nor Whip to them, But let them take their own time: (the patientest man i'th' world Match me for an experiment) and I'll crawl after Like a sheep-biter. Force him up. Use me well, you were best: What I have done, I have done: I'll confess nothing. Now let me come to him: Are you mad (My Lord?) are you out of your Princely wits? What's he? Your Doctor. Let me have his beard sawed off, and his eye Brows filed more civil. I must do mad tricks with him, For that's the only way on't. I have brought Your grace a salamander's skin, to keep you For sun-burning. I have cruel sore eyes. The white of a cockatrice-egg is present remedy.
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 2634–2707 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 38 of 47 in this edition
Length
481 words · 668 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.770 (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'll second you in all danger: and (how ere) My life keepes rancke with yours You are still my lou'd, and best friend. Now Doctor; may I visit your Patient? If't please your Lordship: but he's instantly To take the ayre here in the Gallery, By my direction. 'Pray-thee, what's his disease? A very pestilent disease (my Lord) They call Licanthropia. What's that? I need a Dictionary to't. I'll tell you: In those that are possess'd with't there ore-flowes Such mellencholy humour, they imagine Themselues to be transformed into Woolues, Steale forth to Church-yards in the dead of night, And dig dead bodies vp: as two nights since One met the Duke, 'bout midnight in a lane Behind St. Markes Church, with the leg of a man Vpon his shoulder; and he howl'd fearefully: Said he was a Woolffe: onely the difference Was, a Woolffes skinne was hairy on the out-side, His on the In-side: bad them take their swords, Rip vp his flesh, and trie: straight I was sent for, And hauing ministerd to him, found his Grace Very well recouered. I am glad on't, Yet not without some feare Of a relaps: if he grow to his fit againe I'll goe a neerer way to worke with him Then euer Paraclesus dream'd of: If They'll giue me leaue I'll buffet his madnesse out of him. Stand aside: he comes. Leaue me. Why doth your Lordship loue this solitarines? Eagles cōmonly fly alone: They are Crowes, Dawes, and Sterlings that flocke together: Looke, what's that, Followes me? Nothing (my Lord) Yes: 'Tis your shadow. Stay it, let it not haunt me. Impossible; if you moue, and the Sun shine: I will throtle it. Oh, my Lord: you are angry with nothing. You are a foole: How is't possible I should catch my shadow Vnlesse I fall vpon't? When I goe to Hell, I meane to carry a bribe: for looke you Good guifts euer-more make away, for the worst persons Rise good my Lord. I am studying the Art of Patience. 'Tis a noble Vertue; To driue six Snailes before me, from this towne To Mosco; neither vse Goad, nor Whip to them, But let them take their owne time: (the patientst mani'th' world Match me for an experiment) and I'll crawle after Like a sheepe-biter. Force him vp. Vse me well, you were best: What I haue don, I haue don: I'll confesse nothing▪ Now let me come to him: Are you mad (My Lord?) are you out of your Princely wits? What's he? Your Doctor.. Let me haue his beard saw'd off, and his eye Browes fil'd more ciuill. I must do mad trickes with him, For that's the onely way on't. I haue brought Your grace a Salamanders skin, to keepe you For sun-burning. I haue cruell sore eyes. The white of a Cockatrixes-egge is present remedy.