Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1609 [c.1608-1611] (Annals) romance · King's Men T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.81 · 520 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
So sick I am not, yet I am not well: But not so Citizen a wanton, as To seem to dye, ere sick: So please you, leave me, Stick to your journal course: the breach of Custom, Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me. Society, is no comfort To one not sociable: I am not very sick, Since I can reason of it: pray you trust me here, I'll rob none but myself, and let me dye Stealing so poorly. I love thee: I have spoke it, How much the quantity, the weight as much, As I do love my Father. What? How? how? If it be sin to say so (Sir) I yoke me In my good Brother's fault: I know not why I love this youth, and I have heard you say, love's reason's, without reason. The Beer at door, And a demand who is't shall dye, I'd say My Father, not this youth. Oh noble strain! O worthiness of Nature, breed of Greatness! Cowards father Cowards, & Base things Sire Base; Nature hath Meal, and Bran; Contempt, and Grace. I'm not their Father, yet who this should be, Doth miracle itself, loved before me. 'Tis the ninth hour o' th' Morn. Brother, farewell. I wish ye sport. You health.— So please you Sir. These are kind Creatures. Gods, what lies I have heard: Our Courtiers say, all's savage, but at Court; Experience, oh thou disproou'st Report. Th' imperious Seas breeds Monsters; for the Dish, Poor Tributary Rivers, as sweet Fish: I am sick still, heartsick; Pisanio, I'll now taste of thy Drugge. I could not stir him: He said he was gentle, but unfortunate; Dishonestly afflicted, but yet honest. Thus did he answer me: yet said hereafter, I might know more. To ' th' Field, to ' th' Field: we'll leave you for this time, go in, and rest. we'll not be long away. Pray be not sick, For you must be our Huswife. Well, or ill. I am bound to you. And shalt be ever. This youth, how ere distressed, appears he hath had Good Ancestors. How Angel-like he sings? But his neat Cookery? He cut our Roots in Characters, And sawc'st our Broths, as Iuno had been sick, And he her Dieter. Nobly he yokes A smiling, with a sigh; as if the sigh Was that it was, for not being such a Smile: The Smile, mocking the Sigh, that it would fly From so divine a Temple, to commix With winds, that Saylors rail at. I do note, That grief and patience rooted in them both, Mingle their spurs together. Grow patiented, And let the stinking-Elder (Grief) untwine His perishing root, with the increasing Vine. It is great morning. Come away: Who's there? I cannot find those Runagates, that Villain Hath mocked me. I am faint. Those Runagates? Means he not us? I partly know him, 'tis Cloten, the Son o' th' Queen. I fear some Ambush: I saw him not these many years, and yet I know 'tis he: We are held as Outlaws: Hence.
nodes 1923–2000 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 33 of 54 in this edition
Length
520 words · 741 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.814 (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)
So ſicke I am not, yet I am not well: But not ſo Citizen a wanton, as To ſeeme to dye, ere ſicke: So pleaſe you, leaue me, Sticke to your Iournall courſe: the breach of Cuſtome, Is breach of all. I am ill, but your being by me Cannot amend me. Society, is no comfort To one not ſociable: I am not very ſicke, Since I can reaſon of it: pray you truſt me heere, Ile rob none but my ſelfe, and let me dye Stealing ſo poorely. I loue thee: I haue ſpoke it, How much the quantity, the waight as much, As I do loue my Father. What? How? how? If it be ſinne to ſay ſo (Sir) I yoake mee In my good Brothers fault: I know not why I loue this youth, and I haue heard you ſay, Loue's reaſon's, without reaſon. The Beere at doore, And a demand who is't ſhall dye, I'ld ſay My Father, not this youth. Oh noble ſtraine! O worthineſſe of Nature, breed of Greatneſſe! "Cowards father Cowards, & Baſe things Syre Bace; "Nature hath Meale, and Bran; Contempt, and Grace. I'me not their Father, yet who this ſhould bee, Doth myracle it ſelfe, lou'd before mee. 'Tis the ninth houre o' th' Morne. Brother, farewell. I wiſh ye ſport. You health.—So pleaſe you Sir. Theſe are kinde Creatures. Gods, what lyes I haue heard: Our Courtiers ſay, all's ſauage, but at Court; Experience, oh thou diſproou'ſt Report. Th' emperious Seas breeds Monſters; for the Diſh, Poore Tributary Riuers, as ſweet Fiſh: I am ſicke ſtill, heart-ſicke; Piſanio, Ile now taſte of thy Drugge. I could not ſtirre him: He ſaid he was gentle, but vnfortunate; Diſhoneſtly afflicted, but yet honeſt. Thus did he anſwer me: yet ſaid heereafter, I might know more. To' th' Field, to' th' Field: Wee'l leaue you for this time, go in, and reſt. Wee'l not be long away. Pray be not ſicke, For you muſt be our Huſwife. Well, or ill. I am bound to you. And ſhal't be euer. This youth, how ere diſtreſt, appeares he hath had Good Anceſtors. How Angell-like he ſings? But his neate Cookerie? He cut our Rootes in Charracters, And ſawc'ſt our Brothes, as Iuno had bin ſicke, And he her Dieter. Nobly he yoakes A ſmiling, with a ſigh; as if the ſighe Was that it was, for not being ſuch a Smile: The Smile, mocking the Sigh, that it would flye From ſo diuine a Temple, to commix With windes, that Saylors raile at. I do note, That greefe and patience rooted in them both, Mingle their ſpurres together. Grow patient, And let the ſtinking-Elder (Greefe) vntwine His periſhing roote, with the encreaſing Vine. It is great morning. Come away: Who's there? I cannot finde thoſe Runnagates, that Villaine Hath mock'd me. I am faint. Thoſe Runnagates? Meanes he not vs? I partly know him, 'tis Cloten, the Sonne o' th' Queene. I feare ſome Ambuſh: I ſaw him not theſe many yeares, and yet I know 'tis he: We are held as Out-Lawes: Hence.