Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
My Baltazar! Let us make haste to meet thee: how art thou altered? Do you not know him? Yes, Sir, the brave Soldier Employed against the Moores. Half turned Moore! I'll honour thee, reach him a chair, that Table, And now Aeneas-like let thine own Trumpet Sound forth thy battle with those slavish Moores. My music is a Canon; a pitched field my stage; Furies the Actors, blood and vengeance the scene; death the story; a sword imbrued with blood, the pen that writes, and the Poet a terrible buskined Tragical fellow, with a wreath about his head of burning match instead of bays. On to the Battle. 'Tis here without bloodshed: This our main Battalia, that the Van, this the Vaw, these the wings, here we fight, there they fly, here they ensconce, and here our sconces lay 17 Moons on the cold earth. This satisfies mine eye, but now mine ear Must have his music too; describe the battle. The Battle? Am I come from doing to talking? The hardest part for a Soldier to play is to prate well; our Tongues are Fifes, Drums, Petronels, Muskets, Culverin and Canon, these are our Roarers; the Clocks which we go by, are our hands; thus we reckon ten, our swords strike eleven, and when steel targets of proof clatter one against another, then 'tis noon, that's the height and the heat of the day of battle. So. To that heat we came, our Drums beat, Pikes were shaken and shivered, swords and Targets clashed and clattered, Muskets rattled, Canons roared, men died groaning. brave laced Jerkins and Feathers looked pale, tottered rascals fought pell-mell; here fell a wing, there heads were lost like footballs; legs and arms quarreled in the air, and yet lay quietly on the earth; horses trampled upon heaps of carcases, Troops of Carbines tumbled wounded from their horses; we besiege Moores, and famine us, Mutinies bluster and are calm; I vowed not to doff mine Armour, though my flesh were frozen to't and turned into Iron, nor to cut head nor beard till they yielded; my hairs and oath are of one length, for (with Caesar) thus write I mine own story, Veni, vidi, vici. A pitched field quickly fought: our hand is thine; And 'cause thou shalt not murmur that thy blood Was lavished forth for an ingrateful man, Demand what we can give thee, and 'tis thine. Only your love. 'Tis thine, rise, soldiers' best accord When wounds of wrongs are healed up by the sword. Let me come in, I'll kill that treacherous King The murderer of mine honour, let me come in. What woman's voice is that? Medina's Niece. Bar out that fiend. I'll tear him with my nails, Let me come in, let me come in, help, help me. Keep her from following me; a guard. They are ready, Sir. Let a quick summons call our Lords together; This disease kills me. Sir I would be private with you. Forbear us, but see the doors well guarded.
seed 43: T47 · seed 44: T45 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
My Baltazar! Let us make haste to meet thee: how art thou alter'd? Doe you not know him? Yes, Sir, the brave Souldier Employed against the Moores. Halfe turn'd Moore! I'le honour thee, reach him a chaire, that Table, And now Aenaeas-like let thine owne Trumpet Sound forth thy battell with those slavish Moores. My musicke is a Canon; a pitch field my stage; Furies the Actors, blood and vengeance the scaene; death the story; a sword imbrued with blood, the pen that writes, and the Poet a terrible buskind Tragicall fellow, with a wreath about his head of burning match instead of Bayes. On to the Battaile. 'Tis here without bloud-shed: This our maine Battalia, that the Van, this the Vaw, these the wings, here we fight, there they flye, here they insconco, and here ou sconces lay 17 Moones on the cold earth. This satisfies mine eye, but now mine eare Must have his musicke too; describe the battaile. The Battaile? Am I come from doing to talking? The hardest part for a Souldier to play is to prate well; our Tongues are Fifes, Drums, Petronels, Muskets, Culverin and Canon, these are our Roarers; the Clockes whieh wee goe by, are our hands; thus wee reckon tenne, our swords strike eleven, and when steele targets of proofe clatter one against another, then 'tis noone, that's the height and the heat of the day of battaile. So. To that heat we came, our Drums beat, Pikes were shaken and shiver'd, swords and Targets clash'd and clatter'd, Maskets ratled, Canons roar'd, men dyed groaning. brave laced Ierkings and Feathers looked pale, totter'd rascals fought pell mell; here fell a wing, there heads were ost like foot-balls; legs and armes quarrell'd in the ayre, and yet lay quietly on the earth; horses trampled upon heaps of Carkafles, Troopes of Carbines tumbled wounded from their horses; we besiege Moores, and famine us, Mutinies bluster and are calme; I vow'd not to doff mine Armour, tho my flesh were frozen too't and turn'd into Iron, nor to cut head nor beard till they yeelded; my hayres and oath are of one length, for (with Caesar) thus write I mine owne story, Veni, vidi, vici. A pitch'd field quickly fought: our hand is thine; And 'cause thou shalt not murmure that thy bloud Was lavish'd forth for an ingratefull man, Demand what we can give thee, and 'tis thine. Onely your love. 'Tis thine, rise, Souldiers best accord When wounds of wrongs are heal'd up by the sword. Let me come in, I'le kill that treacherous King The murderer of mine honour, let me come in. What womans voyce is that? Medina's Neece. Bar out that fiend. I'le teae him with my nayles, Let me come in, let me come in, helpe, helpe me. Keepe her from following me; a gard. They are ready, Sir. Let a quicke summons call our Lords together; This disease kils me. Sir I would be private with you. Forbeare us, but see the dores well guarded.