Fisher, Jasper · published 1633 · first performed or written 1625 [c.1611-1633] (Annals) history · at University unassigned nearest T50 Fleets, armies and generals: war by sea · 494 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
Whilst we here bid the base. four thousand charioteers, (Such as did glide upon the Phrygian Plains, And wheeling double service do perform, Both horseman's speed, and footman's stable strength) Still do remain: With these and flocking voluntaries we'll give him once more battle. Let the Captains Enter, and hear my charge. Subjects and Fellow-soldiers; We must now try For ancient freedom, or perpetual bondage. There is no third choice. The enraged foe With cruel pride, proud avarice, hath spoiled From East to West, hunting for blood and gain. Your wives and daughters ravished, ransacked towns, Great bellies ripped with lances, sprawling babes, The spouse about her husband's neck run through By the same spear. Think on these Objects: Then choose them for your Lords, who spoil and burn Whole countries; and call Desolation, Peace. Yield, yield; That he ennobled by our spoils, May climb the Capitol with triumphant cart, You led fast fettered through the staring streets, For city Dames to mock your habit strange, And fill their arras hangings with our story. No: Brennus' ghost forbid, who this night stood, Before my eyes, and grimly furious spoke: Shall Britain stoop to Roman Rods and Hatchets, And servile tribute? Will ye so defame Your ancestors, and your successors wrong, Heirs but of slavery? O, this day make good The glory of so many ages past! I see, you are incensed, and wish to use Your weapons, not your ears. All. To arms, to arms, to arms: we'll fight, and die. So the Silver-feathered swan, Both by death and colour wan, Loves to sing before she die, Leaving life so willingly. But how can I sing a note? When dead hoarseness stops my throat: Or how can I play a stroke? When my heartstrings all are broke. Come guilty night, and with black velvet wings Mantle me round; Let melancholic thoughts, Hang all my brain with Blacks: This darksome grove, My gallery. So, all things suit my mind: Such funeral colours please a gasping heart. I died with thee Landora once: Now only Some struggling spirits are behind, to be Laid out with most thrift on thy memory. Where shall I first begin my last complaint, Which must be measured by my glass of life? At thee Hirildas? Slain in furious mood, By whose help only I enjoyed my love? Or thee Landora? dying for his sake, And in thy death including mine? Or at my country's wrack? whose surface torn Doth for my vengeance importune the Pole? Or at myself? ay, there is sorrows spring. Shall I go wandering lurk in woods unknown, A banished Hermit, and sigh out my griefs? Teaching the pretty birds to sing my dear, My dear Landora: There to feed on acorns, Drink the clear fountain, and consume with weeping, Were but an easy life, an easy death: My violent passion must have sudden vent. Refined Soul, whose odoriferous light, The damned hags stare at, and whining elves,
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)
Whilst we heere bid the bace. Foure thousand chariotteers, (Such as did glide vpon the Phrygian Plaines, And wheeling double seruice doe performe, Both horse-mans speed, and foot-mans stable strength) Still doe remaine: With these and flocking voluntaries Wee'll giue him once more battell. Let the Captaines Enter, and heare my charge. Subiects and Fellow-souldiers; We must now try For ancient freedome, or perpetuall bondage. There is no third choise. The inraged foe With cruell pride, proud avarice, hath spoyl'd From East to West, hunting for blood and gaine. Your wiues and daughters ravisht, ransackt townes, Great bellyes ript with launces, sprawling babes, The spouse about her husbands necke run through By the same speare. Thinke on these Obiects: Then choose them for your Lords, who spoyle and burne Whole countryes; and call Desolation, Peace. Yeeld, yeeld; That he ennobled by our spoyles, May clime the Capitoll with triumphant carte, You led fast fetterd through the staring streets, For citie Dames to mocke your habite strange, And fill their arras hangings with our story. No: Brennus ghost forbid, who this night stood, Before my eyes, and grimly furious spake: Shall Britaine stoop to Romane Rods and Hatchets, And servile tribute? Will ye so defame Your ancestors, and your successors wrong, Heires but of slauery▪ O, this day make good The glory of so many ages past! I see, you are incens'd, and wish to vse Your weapons, not your eares. All. To armes, to armes, to armes: Wee'll fight, and dye. So the Siluer-feathered swan, Both by death and colour wan, Loues to sing before shee dye, Leauing life so willingly. But how can I sing a note? When dead hoarsenesse stops my throat: Or how can I play a stroke? When my heart-strings all are broke. Come guilty night, and with blacke velvet wings Mantle me round; Let melancholike thoughts, Hang all my braine with Blacks: This darkesome grove, My gallery. So, all things suite my mind: Such funerall colours please a gasping heart. I dyed with thee Landora once: Now only Some strugling spirits are behind, to be Laid out with most thrift on thy memory. Where shall I first begin my last complaint, Which must be measur'd by my glasse of life? At thee Hirildas? Slaine in furious moode, By whose helpe only I inioy'd my loue? Or thee Landora? dying for his sake, And in thy death including mine? Or at my Countries wracke? whose surface torne Doth for my vengeance importune the Pole? Or at my selfe? I, there is sorrowes spring. Shall I goe wandring lurke in woods vnknowne, A banisht Hermite, and sigh out my griefes? Teaching the prettie birds to sing my deare, My deare Landora: There to feed on acornes, Drinke the cleare fountaine, and consume with weeping, Were but an easie life, an easie death: My violent passion must haue sudden vent. Refined Soule, whose odoriferous light, The damned hags stare at, and whining elves,