Rowley, William · published 1638 · first performed or written 1608 [1607-1609] (Annals) romance · Prince Charles's Men (first) · Red Bull unassigned nearest T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
Away boys, go you before; Joan jumble breech your Dame and I will follow, Cherish him up, tell him he shall not want; He lives not in the world could ever say, A Shoemaker from his friend did flinch away. Resolve me yet, you stubborn Christians, Cannot the several tortures which we do inflict, Yet melt the Iron of your hardened hearts, To make you bow unto our Roman gods? Speak, will you obey our hest? None but the hests of heaven. A thousand deaths have not the bitter stings As are the pains we have felt in torturing; Yet Tyrant we'll endure ten thousand more, And laugh in death's face, ere we our faiths give o'er. Renowned Albon, on thy head I'll set A Crown of gold. To make me heaven forget: Never. Never. Let me yet win thee foolish man: Remember what honours we, and Dioclesian Heaped upon thee: giving thee the style Britain's Stewardship, The Prince of Knights, Lord of Varlome. And in thy Racks, thy Irons, Gibbets, and thy Wheel, Do I more honour, and more comfort feel, Than all those painted smokes by thee bestowed Of me: my Country may thus much boast: Albon Stood firm and fixed, in spite of tyrant's wrath, Britain's first Martyr for the Christian faith. But not the last: For to thy scorn I'll add millions of Christian flames, to death and tortures. Dispatch these first. I will drag them hence in Chains to Helnurst Hill, three miles from Verolome, Where Albon's Lord, there after blows, And spiteful buffetings, for honour of his Knighthood, once held the chief, He shall have a Knight to be his Headsman. That stroke shall well be given, That makes room for a soul to fly to heaven. This fiend Amphiabel, From whose damned Teat he sucked this poison, Shall there be bound by a fixed stake, To which nailed fast, the Navel of his belly Being opened, then with your sword prick him, And force him run about like a wheel, Till he has spun his Guts out: and that dispatched, Saw off his traitorous head. Caesar in greater triumph ne'er was led. Away with them; Albon's the first shall die: Thou honour'st me amidst thy tyranny: come on dear friend, Eternity protect us to our end: Fight nobly then. To my latest breath: I go to a wedding (friend) and not to death. Go drag 'em hence; this day we'll Quaff the blood of Christians: call forth more: So perish all will not our gods adore. Nay fellow Hugh, or noble Sir Hugh, remember 'tis not every man's case to die a Christian; prithee leave it then, and save thy life; the Roman gods are as good gods as e'er trod on a shoe of leather: and therefore sweet Hugh we may get their custom, and bring 'em to our shop, and so we shall be Shoemakers to the gods. You trouble me, I pray leave. Leave thee, not as long as thou liv'st I'faith. What are all these?
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)
Away boyes, goe you before; Joane jumble breech your Dame and I will follow, Cherish him up, tell him he shall not want; He lives not in the world could ever say, A Shooe-maker from his friend did flinch away. Resolve me yet, you stubborne Christians, Cannot the severall tortures which we doe inflict, Yet melt the Iron of your hardned hearts, To make you bow unto our Roman gods? Speake, will you obey our hest? None but the hests of heaven. A thousand deaths have not the bitter stings As are the paines we have felt in torturing; Yet Tyrant wee'le endure tenne thousand more, And laugh in deaths face, e're we our faiths give o're. Renowned Albon, on thy head Ile set A Crowne of gold. To make me heaven forget: Never. Never. Let me yet winne thee foolish man: Remember what honours we, and Dioclesian Heapt upon thee: giving thee the stile Brittaines Stewardship, The Prince of Knights, Lord of Varlome. And in thy Rackes, thy Irons, Gibbets, and thy Wheele, Doe I more honour, and more comfort feele, Than all those painted smoakes by thee bestowed Of me: my Countrey may thus much boast: Albon Stood firme and fixt, in spight of tyrants wrath, Brittaines first Martyr for the Christian faith. But not the last: For to thy scorne Ile adde millions of Christian flames, to death and tortures. Dispatch these first. I will dragge them hence in Chaines to Hlnurst Hill, three miles rom Verolome, Where Albons Lord, there after blowes, And spightfull buffettings, for honour of his Knight-hood, once held the chiefe, He shall have a Knight to be his Heads-man. That stroake shall well be given, That makes roome for a soule to flye to heaven. This fiend Amphiabel, From whose damn'd Teate he suckt this poyson, Shall there be bound by a fixed stake, To which nail'd fast, the Navell of his belly Being opened, then with your sword prick him, And force him runne about like a wheele, Till he has spunne his Guts out: and that dispatcht, Saw off his traiterous head. Caesar in greater triumph nere was led. Away with them; Albon's the first shall dye: Thou honour'st me amidst thy tyranny: come on dear friend, Eternity protect us to our end: Fight nobly then. To my latest breath: I goe to a wedding (friend) and not to death. Goe dragge 'em hence; this day weele Quaffe the blood of Christians: call forth more: So perish all will not our gods adore. Nay fellow Hugh, or noble Sir Hugh, remember 'tis not every mans case to dye a Christian; prethee leave it then, and save thy life; the Roman gods are as good gods as e're troe on a shooe of leather: and therefore sweete Hugh wee may get their custome, and bring 'em to our shoppe, and so we shll be Shooe-makers to the gods. You trouble me, I pray leave. Leave thee, not as long as thou liv'st I'faith. What are all these?