Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
What's that ye all laughed at? Nothing but a jest. Nay, good Sir tell me. An idle jest, more wine for Bruce. No more, I have drunk too much, Wallace and I did parley. How in words? No Percy, I'm no prater, 'twas with swords, Your laughing jest was not at me? Sir, no. Bruce would fain quarrel, I ha' done sir. Peace, what Trumpet's that? From the enemy sure. Go learn. I come from Wallace. So Sir, what of him? Thus he speaks. He bids me dare you to a fresh battle, by to morrow's sun, Army to Army, troup to troup, he challenges, Or to save blood, fifty to fifty, shall the strife decide, Or one to one. A Herald to the traitor. Go and thus speak, we bring whips of steel, To scourge Rebellion, not to stand the braves Of a base daring vassal, bid him ere that Sun Which he calls up be risen, pay it and save His Country and himself from ruin, charge him on his head, To make his quick submission; if he slow the minutes, we'll proclaim in thunder his and his country's ruin, Go be gone, Arm. Arm, Arm. A Land that's sick at heart must take sharp pills, For dangerous physic best cures dangerous ills. As you are a soldier, as y'are noble I charge you and conjure you to unclasp A book in which I am gravelled. Perhaps I cannot. Yes, if you dare you can. Dare? Clifford dares Do any thing but wrong and what's not just. Then tell me sir, what was that bitter scorn, Which I like poison tasted in my wine? I care not if I do, because I love virtue even in My enemy, the bowl of wine kissing your lip. Behold, quoth one how eagerly you Scot, Drinks his own blood. You Scot drinks his own blood, which Scot? Best wake some Oracle. Who broke the jest upon me? Pray pardon me. The Oracle I'll wake is here, oh Wallace, I ne'er had eyes till now, they were closed up By braving English, witchcraft drinks his own blood, England my stepdame take my bitter curse, Thy own nails tear thy own bowels, oh my parent Dear Scotland, I no more will be a goad, Pricking thy sides, but if ere I draw a sword, It shall be double-edged with blood and fire, To burn and drown this Kingdom and this King. My General Charged me in privacy to give you these. Thanks noble Clifford, what did he bid thee say? Nothing but so. A pair of Spurs, Bruce ne'er was runaway, Twelve silver pence, oh bitter scorn, with Judas, I have betrayed my Master, my dear Country, And here's the emblem of my treachery, To hasten to some tree, and desperate die, Twelve sterling silver pence, sterling, ha sterling, 'Tis a limb of Scotland, spurs for flight, Clifford, i'll thither, comment I wrong or right.
seed 43: T22 · seed 44: T13 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
What's that ye all laugh'd at? Nothing but a jeſt. Nay, good Sir tell me. An idle jeſt, more wine for Bruce. No more, I have drunk too much, Wallace and I did parlee. How in words? No Percy, I'me no prater, 'twas with ſwords, Your laughing jeſt was not at me? Sir, no. Bruce would fain quarrell, I ha done ſir. Peace, what Trumpet's that? From the enemy ſure. Go learn. I come from Wallace. So Sir, what of him? Thus he ſpeaks. He bids me dare you to a freſh battaile, by to morrowes ſunne, Army to Army, troup to troup, he challenges, Or to ſave bloud, fifty to fifty, ſhall the ſtrife decide, Or one to one. A Herald to the traitor. Go and thus ſpeak, we bring whips of ſteele, To ſcourge Rebellion, not to ſtand the braves Of a baſe daring vaſſall, bid him ere that Sun Which he calls up be riſen, pay it and ſave His Country and himſelfe from ruine, charge him on his head, To make his quick ſubmiſſion; if he ſlow the minutes, Wee'le proclaime in thunder his and his Countries ruine, Go be gon, Arme. Arme, Arme. A Land that's ſick at heart muſt take ſharp pils, For dangerous phyſick beſt cures dangerous ils. As you are a ſouldier, as y' are noble I charge you and conjure you to unclaſpe A book in which I am graveld. Perhaps I cannot. Yes, if you dare you can. Dare? Clifford dares Do any thing but wrong and what's not juſt. Then tell me ſir, what was that bitter ſcorn, Which I like poyſon taſted in my wine? I care not if I doe, becauſe I love vertue even in My enemy, the bowle of wine kiſſing your lip. Behold, quoth one how eagerly you Scot, Drinks his own bloud. You Scot drinks his own bloud, which Scot? Beſt wake ſome Oracle. Who brake the jeſt upon me? Pray pardon me. The Oracle I'le wake is here, oh Wallace, I ne're had eyes till now, they were clos'd up By braving Engliſh, witchcraft drinks his own bloud, England my ſtepdame take my bitter curſe, Thy own nails teare thy own bowels, oh my parent Dear Scotland, I no more will be a goad, Pricking thy ſides, but if ere I draw a ſword, It ſhall be double-edg'd with bloud and fire, To burn and drown this Kingdome and this King. My Generall Charg'd me in privacie to give you theſe. Thanks noble Clifford, what did he bid thee ſay? Nothing but ſo. A pair of Spurs, Bruce nere was runaway, Twelve ſilver pence, oh bitter ſcorn, with Judas, I have betray'd my Maſter, my dear Country, And here's the embleme of my treachery, To haſten to ſome tree, and deſperate die, Twelve ſterling ſilver pence, ſterling, ha ſterling, 'Tis a limbe of Scotland, ſpurs for flight, Clifford, i'le thither, comment I wrong or right.