Shakespeare, William / Middleton, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1606 (Annals) tragedy · King's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.84 · 487 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
Macduff, this Noble passion Child of integrity, hath from my soul Wiped the black Scruples, reconciled my thoughts To thy good Truth, and Honor. Devilish Macbeth, By many of these trains, hath sought to win me Into his power: and modest Wisdom plucks me From over-credulous haste: but God above Deal between thee and me; For even now I put myself to thy Direction, and Vnspeake mine own detraction. here abjure The taints, and blames I laid upon myself, For strangers to my Nature. I am yet Unknown to Woman, never was forsworn, Scarcely have coveted what was mine own: At no time broke my Faith, would not betray The Devil to his Fellow, and delight No less in truth then life. My first false speaking Was this upon myself. What I am truly Is thine, and my poor Countries to command: Whither indeed, before they here approach Old Seyward with ten thousand warlike men Already at a point, was setting forth: Now we'll together, and the chance of goodness Be like our warranted Quarrel. Why are you silent? Such welcome, and unwelcome things at once 'Tis hard to reconcile. Well, more anon. Comes the King forth I pray you? I Sir: there are a crew of wretched Souls That stay his Cure: their malady convinces The great assay of Art. But at his touch, Such sanctity hath Heaven given his hand, They presently amend. I thank you Doctor. What's the Disease he means? 'tis called the Evil. A most miraculous work in this good King, Which often since my here remain in England, I have seen him do: How he solicits heaven Himself best knows: but strangely visited people All swollen and Ulcerous, pitiful to the eye, The mere despair of Surgery, he cures, Hanging a golden stamp about their necks, Put on with holy Prayers, and 'tis spoken To the succeeding Royalty he leaves The healing Benediction. With this strange virtue, He hath a heavenly gift of Prophecy, And sundry Blessings hang about his Throne, That speak him full of Grace. See who comes here. My Countryman: but yet I know him nor. My ever gentle Cousin, welcome hither. I know him now. Good God betimes remove The means that makes us Strangers. Sir, Amen. Stands Scotland where it did? Alas poor Country, Almost afraid to know itself. It cannot Be called our Mother, but our Grave; where nothing But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile: Where sighs, and groans, and shrieks that rend the air Are made, not marked: Where violent sorrow seems A Modern ecstasy: The Dedman's knell, Is there scarce asked for who, and good men's lives Expire before the Flowers in their Caps, Dying, or ere they sicken. Oh Relation; too nice, and yet too true. What's the newest grief? That of an hour's age, doth hisse the speaker, Each minute teems a new one. How does my Wife?
nodes 1794–1864 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 26 of 33 in this edition
Length
487 words · 655 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.843 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
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)
Macduff, this Noble paſſion Childe of integrity, hath from my ſoule Wip'd the blacke Scruples, reconcil'd my thoughts To thy good Truth, and Honor. Diuelliſh Macbeth, By many of theſe traines, hath ſought to win me Into his power: and modeſt Wiſedome pluckes me From ouer-credulous haſt: but God aboue Deale betweene thee and me; For euen now I put my ſelfe to thy Direction, and Vnſpeake mine owne detraction. Heere abiure The taints, and blames I laide vpon my ſelfe, For ſtrangers to my Nature. I am yet Vnknowne to Woman, neuer was forſworne, Scarſely haue coueted what was mine owne: At no time broke my Faith, would not betray The Deuill to his Fellow, and delight No leſſe in truth then life. My firſt falſe ſpeaking Was this vpon my ſelfe. What I am truly Is thine, and my poore Countries to command: Whither indeed, before they heere approach Old Seyward with ten thouſand warlike men Already at a point, was ſetting foorth: Now wee'l together, and the chance of goodneſſe Be like our warranted Quarrell. Why are you ſilent? Such welcome, and vnwelcom things at once 'Tis hard to reconcile. Well, more anon. Comes the King forth I pray you? I Sir: there are a crew of wretched Soules That ſtay his Cure: their malady conuinces The great aſſay of Art. But at his touch, Such ſanctity hath Heauen giuen his hand, They preſently amend. I thanke you Doctor. What's the Diſeaſe he meanes? Tis call'd the Euill. A moſt myraculous worke in this good King, Which often ſince my heere remaine in England, I haue ſeene him do: How he ſolicites heauen Himſelfe beſt knowes: but ſtrangely viſited people All ſwolne and Vlcerous, pittifull to the eye, The meere diſpaire of Surgery, he cures, Hanging a golden ſtampe about their neckes, Put on with holy Prayers, and 'tis ſpoken To the ſucceeding Royalty he leaues The healing Benediction. With this ſtrange vertue, He hath a heauenly guift of Propheſie, And ſundry Bleſſings hang about his Throne, That ſpeake him full of Grace. See who comes heere. My Countryman: but yet I know him nor. My euer gentle Cozen, welcome hither. I know him now. Good God betimes remoue The meanes that makes vs Strangers. Sir, Amen. Stands Scotland where it did? Alas poore Countrey, Almoſt affraid to know it ſelfe. It cannot Be call'd our Mother, but our Graue; where nothing But who knowes nothing, is once ſeene to ſmile: Where ſighes, and groanes, and ſhrieks that rent the ayre Are made, not mark'd: Where violent ſorrow ſeemes A Moderne extaſie: The Deadmans knell, Is there ſcarſe ask'd for who, and good mens liues Expire before the Flowers in their Caps, Dying, or ere they ſicken. Oh Relation; too nice, and yet too true. What's the neweſt griefe? That of an houres age, doth hiſſe the ſpeaker, Each minute teemes a new one. How do's my Wife?