Ford, John · published 1629 · first performed or written 1628 [licensed for stage, Nov 24] (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men · Globe T3 Sickness, physic and doctors typicality 0.69 · 490 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T3: doctor, master, cure, disease, pray, physic, physician, mr, sick, lady.
Expel him the house, 'tis a Dunce. Hark, did ye not hear a rumbling, The Gobblings are now a tumbling: I'll tear 'em, I'll sear'em, I'll roar 'em, I'll gore 'em: Now, now, now, my brains are a jumbling,— Bounce, the gun's off. You name this here, Hypochondriacal. Which is a windy flatuous humour stuffing The head, and thence derived to th'animal parts To be too overcurious, loss of goods, Or friends, excess of fear, or sorrow's cause it. Good your Honours, Pray your Worships, Dear your Beauties, Hang thee. To lash your sides, To tame your hides, To scourge your pride's, And bang thee. Were pretty and dainty, and I will begin, See how they do jeer me, deride me, and grin: Come sport me, come court me, your Topsail advance, And let us conclude our delights in a Dance. A Dance, a Dance, a Dance. This is the Wanton Melancholy; women With child possessed with this strange fury often, Have danced three days together without ceasing. 'tis very strange: but Heaven is full of miracles. We are thy debtor (Corax) for the gift Of this invention: but the plot deceives us; What means this empty space. One kind of Melancholy Is only left untouched; 'twas not in Art To personate the shadow of that Fancy. 'tis named Love-Melancholy. As for instance, Admit this stranger here (Young man, stand forth) Entangled by the beauty of this Lady, The great Thamasta, cherished in his heart The weight of hopes and fears: it were impossible, To limn his passions in such lively colours, As his own proper sufferance could express. You are not modest Sir. Am I your mirth? Love is the Tyrant of the heart, it darkens Reason, confounds discretion, deaf to counsel: It runs a headlong course to desperate madness. O were your Highness but touched home, and throughly, With this (what shall I call it) Devil— Hold, let no man henceforth name the word again Wait you my pleasure, Youth; 'tis late, to rest. My Lords— Enough, thou art a perfect artsman. panther's may hide their heads, not change the skin: And love pent ne'er so close yet will be seen. Dote on a stranger? Court him, plead, and sue to him, Affectionately? Servilely; and pardon me, if I say basely. Women in their passions, Like false fierce flash, to fright our trembling senses; Yet in themselves contain nor light nor heat. My Sister do this? she, whose pride did scorn All thoughts that were not busied on a Crown? To fall so far beneath her fortunes now? You are my friend. What I confirm, is truth. Truth, Menaphon? If I conceived you were jealous of my sincerity and plainness, Than Sir— What then, Sir? I would then resolve, You were as changeable in vows of friendship, As is Thamasta in her choice of love. That sin is double, running in a blood, Which justifies another being worse.
nodes 1389–1465 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 23 of 36 in this edition
Length
490 words · 706 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T3 — Sickness, physic and doctorscross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.685 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T3 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Expell him the house, tis a Dunce. Harke, did yee not heare a rumbling, The Gobblings are now a tumbling: Il teare 'em, Ile seare'em, Ile roare 'em, Ile goare 'em: Now, now, now, my braines are a Iumbling,— Bounce, the gun's off. You name this here, Hypocondriacall. Which is a windy flattuous humour stuffing The head, and thence deriu'd to th'animall parts To be too ouer-curious, losse of goods, Or friends, excesse of feare, or sorrowes cause it. Good your Honours, Pray your Worships, Deare your Beauties, Hang thee. To lash your sides, To taeme your hides, To scourge your prides, And bang thee. Were pretty and dainty, and I will begin, See how they doe Ieere me, deride me, and grin: Come sport me, come court me, your Topsaile aduance, And let vs conclude our delights in a Dance. A Dance, a Dance, a Dance. This is the Wanton Melancholy; women With child possest with this strange sury often, Haue danc'd three dayes together without ceasing. Tis very strange: but Heau'n is full of miracles. We are thy debtor (Corax) for the gift Of this inuention: but the plot deceiues vs; What meanes this empty space. One kind of Melancholy Is onely left vntouch'd; twas not in Art To personate the shadow of that Fancy. Tis nam'd Loue-Melancholy. As for instance, Admit this stranger here (Young man, stand forth) Intangled by the beauty of this Lady, The great Thamasta, cherisht in his heart The waight of hopes and feares: it were impossible, To lymne his passions in such liuely colours, As his owne proper sufferance coo'd expresse. You are not modest Sir. Am I your mirth? Loue is the Tyrant of the heart, it darkens Reason, confounds discretion, deafe to counsell: It runnes a headlong course to desperate madnesse. O were your Highnes but toucht home, and throughly, With this (what shall I call it) Diuell— Hold, let no man henceforth name the word agen Wait you my pleasure, Youth; tis late, to rest. My Lords— Enough, thou art a perfect Arts-man. Panthers may hide their heads, not change the skin: And loue pent ne're so close yet will be seene. DOate on a stranger? Court him, plead, and sue to him, Affectionately? Seruilely; and pardon me, if I say basely. Women in their passions, Like false fiers flash, to fright our trembling sences; Yet in themselues containe nor light nor heate. My Sister doe this? Shee, whose pride did scorne All thoughts that were not busied on a Crowne? To fall so farre beneath her fortunes now? You are my friend. What I confirme, is truth. Truth, Menaphon? If I conceiu'd you were Iealous of my sincerity and plainnesse, Then Sir— What then, Sir? I would then resolue, You were as changeable in vowes of friendship, As is Thamasta in her choice of loue. That sinne is double, running in a blood, Which iustifies another being worse.