Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
No, will not Clifford. Peace. My Lord, I dare not, In this last battle I received some wounds That yet bleed inward, I will no more banquet strangers With my native blood. Bruce speaks not like a subject. English Edward commands not like a King, Thrice honoured Clifford, I'll trust you with my bosom. No, you shall not. My virgin honour is so chaste, it shall not Keep company with a disquiet bosom, Nor talk with discontents. It shall not, I will but, Spare me, the air hath ears no more, You sent to me, I will but tell bold Clifford Not a word, My thoughts owe as much honour as their Lord. Within traitor, traitor. A mutiny, what noise is't? Mentith, a Knight of Scotland. Keep him off. What com'st thou for? Comyn my countryman and I have brought A jewel to your Highness, which if 'twere right As 'tis known counterfeit, 'twere worth a kingdom, Wearied with war, and pitying the deep wounds Which fainting Scotland bears upon her breast, And knowing that the only sword which gashes Her tender sides, is gripped in Wallace hands, I in my love to peace, and to the safety Of two great Nations, am the man that laid Snares to entrap this monster, that devours So many thousand lives, the rebel's ta'en. Where is he? I have brought him to your English Camp, Force would not do't, but policy, we struck the Stag To the ground, and thought him dead, but heaven put back The blow of purpose, he's now come to life, From an astonishment when we thought him dead, To th'end the world may see the public shame Of an arch-traitor. Mentith hath won fame, And honour by this act, fetch in this devil. Thou wilt have England's thanks, but Scotland's curse, Thou never haste done better, never worse, Damned Iudas to thy Countryman and friend. Where am I? Here with Bruce. Bruce my Sovereign? My blood is sold, this is not Glasco-moore, Some villain hath betrayed me. Speak to your countrymen, Comyn and Mentith. Comyn and Mentith? Something it was that made the modest night Look angry on the world, I this was it, And this was it that cleft my father's grave, And raised him from his monumental bed of earth To give me gentle warning, this was it, That made my star, when all the rest looked pale, Blush like a fiery Meteor, can Heaven wink at this? It can, it doth, and at far greater mischiefs. Not of thy acting? Yes of mine. Not here. Here or in Hell. Why then go act them there, Boast of them there, in that black Kingdom tell That by a true subject a base Rebel fell. What's that? Your Scotch jeweller is slain, By whom? By Wallace. Hear me speak King Edward. Good my Liege hear him,
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)
No, will not Clifford. Peace. My Lord, I dare not, In this laſt battell I receiv'd ſome wounds That yet bleed inward, I will no more banquet ſtrangers With my native bloud. Bruce ſpeaks not like a ſubject. Engliſh Edward commands not like a King, Thrice honour'd Clifford, I'le truſt you with my boſome. No, you ſhall not. My virgin honour is ſo chaſt, it ſhall not Keepe companie with a diſquiet boſome, Nor talke with diſcontents. It ſhall not, I will but, Spare me, the ayre hath eares no more, You ſent to me, I will but tell bold Clifford Not a word, My thoughts owe as much honour as their Lord. Within traytor, traytor. A mutinie, what noyſe is't? Mentith, a Knight of Scotland. Keepe him off. What com'ſt thou for? Comyn my countryman and I have brought A jewell to your Highneſſe, which if 'twere right As 'tis known counterfeit, 'twere worth a kingdome, Wearied with warre, and pittying the deep wounds Which fainting Scotland beares upon her breaſt, And knowing that the onely ſword which gaſhes Her tender ſides, is grip'd in Wallace hands, I in my love to peace, and to the ſafetie Of two great Nations, am the man that layed Snares to entrap this monſter, that devoures So many thouſand lives, the Rebell's tane. Where is he? I have brought him to your Engliſh Camp, Force would not doo't, but policie, we ſtruck the Stagge To the ground, and thought him dead, but heaven put backe The blow of purpoſe, hee's now come to life, From an aſtoniſhment when we thought him dead, To th'end the world may ſee the publique ſhame Of an Arch-traytor. Mentith hath wonne fame, And honour by this act, fetch in this devill. Thou wilt have Englands thanks, but Scotlands curſe, Thou never haſt done better, never worſe, Damn'd Iudas to thy Country-man and friend. Where am I? Here with Bruce. Bruce my Soveraigne? My bloud is ſold, this is not Glaſco-moore, Some villaine hath betray'd me. Speak to your country-men, Comyn and Mentith. Comyn and Mentith? Something it was that made the modeſt night Looke angry on the world, I this was it, And this was it that cleft my fathers grave, And rais'd him from his monumentall bed of earth To give me gentle warning, this was it, That made my ſtarre, when all the reſt look'd pale, Bluſh like a fiery Meteor, can Heaven winke at this? It can, it doth, and at farre greater miſchiefs. Not of thy acting? Yes of mine. Not here. Here or in Hell. Why then goe act them there, Boaſt of them there, in that black Kingdome tell That by a true ſubject a baſe Rebell fell. Whats that? Your Scotch jeweller is ſlain, By whom? By Wallace. Heare me ſpeak King Edward. Good my Liege heare him,