Rowley, William · published 1638 · first performed or written 1608 [1607-1609] (Annals) romance · Prince Charles's Men (first) · Red Bull unassigned nearest T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea · 525 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
Great Dioclesian, our renowned Brother, In France your happy and triumphant deeds We here in Britain thus congratulate: The Vandal and the Goth we hear, have paid The price at full for daring insolence. Even with their bloods they have: Their daring and their downfalls fill one grave, And yet our Conquest had not spread such wings But for those Britain forces you sent o'er: They from the French Field plucked the noblest Flower, And of them all, a Soldier too, whose Fame I cannot sing too much, carried the name Of Honour from us all: his good sword flew like Lightning, And where it went, o'erthrew: the King of Goths Called me his prisoner, but then this brave Opponent Fetched me off in ransom with his blood, and that being done, He like a Lion on the Vandal run: Took him, and closed the battle in his fall, The work was bloody, rough, and Tragical; And therefore for my love pray crown his head That twice saved mine: It is a man, whose Fate Upheld the glory of the Roman State. The man you sent, and praise so Royal Sir, Shall ever live within our Princely favour; One call the Captain hither. Here he comes. Brave Soldier, your high spoken merit Breathed from an emperor's love, claims due regard From his and our hands: cast therefore but your eye On all the Kingdom, what you can espy to please you, Ask, and take it. Which we'll confirm brave Crispianus, Make thy princely boon worthy thy fame, And such as may beseem great Maximinus and Dioclesian, The Masters of the triple world, to give, And by our gods thou shalt the same receive. I humbly thank my Lords; I'll ask no Gold, nor Lands, nor Offices; but thus high, To beg a prisoner's life and liberty. A prisoner noble Sir, what is he? 'Tis a sad Queen, my Mother Royal Sir, Imprisoned by your Grace at Rochester. King Allured's Queen thy Mother? Yes my good Lord, my Kingly Father slain, I and my brother did disguised remain, Till I was pressed for France. This wonder doth amaze me: Is Crispianus then a king's son found? 'Twas voiced abroad, thou and thy brother died in the battle. Fame speakes not alwayes troth: I ve, But of my brother what's become, as yet I have not heard. Thou here shalt live right dear in our regard; Lutius by this our Signet free the Queen from Prison, And give her knowledge of her Princely son: O were our Daughter found, so much I love thee, Thou shouldst enjoy my bright Leodice. We thank our Brother's love to grace our friend, For to his worth we can no gift extend. What shouts are these? Look out. Out of my way Sir: oh my heart! Why what's the matter? The matter say ye? pray let me gape a little; was out of my wits before with fear, and now for joy. Oh my heart, I think in my conscience I have not so much wind left in my belly as will blow out a Candle: The Princess, the Princess Sir.
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)
Great Dioclesian, our renowned Brother, In France your happy and tryumphant deeds We here in Brittaine thus congratulate: The Vandall and the Goth we heare, have paid The price at full for daring insolence. Even with their bloods they have: Their daring and their downfalls fill one grave, And yet our Conquest had not spred such wings But for those Brittaine forces you sent o're: They from the French Field pluckt the noblest Flower, And of them all, a Souldier too, whose Fame I cannot sing too much, carryed the name Of Honour from us all: his good sword flew like Lightning, And where it went, o'rethrew: the King of Goths Call'd me his prisoner, but then this brave Opponent Fetcht me off in ransome with his blood, and that being done, He like a Lyon on the Vandall runne: Tooke him, and clos'd the battell in his fall, The worke was bloody, rough, and Tragicall; And therefore for my love pray crowne his head That twice sav'd mine: It is a man, whose Fate Vpheld the glory of the Roman State. The man you sent, and praise so Royall Sir, Shall ever live within our Princely favour; One call the Captaine hither. Here he comes. Brave Souldier, your high spoken merit Breath'd from an Emperours love, claimes due regard From his and our hands: cast therefore but your eye On all the Kingdome, what you can espye to please you, Aske, and take it. Which wee'le confirme brave Crispianus, Make thy princely boone worthy thy fame, And such as may beseeme great Maximinus and Dioclesian, The Masters of the triple world, to give, And by our gods thou shalt the same receive. I humbly thanke my Lords; Ile aske no Gold, nor Lands, nor Ofices; but thus high, To beg a prisoners life and liberty. A prisoner noble Sir, what is he? 'Tis a sad Queene, my Mother Royall Sir, Imprison'd by your Grace at Rochester. King Allureds Queene thy Mother? Yes my good Lord, my Kingly Father slaine, I and my brother did disguis'd remaine, Till I was prest for France. This wonder doth amaze me: Is Crispianus then a Kings sonne found? 'Twas voye'd abroad, thou and thy brother dyed in the battell. Fame speakes not alwayes troth: I ve, But of my brother what's become, as yet I have not heard. Thou here shalt live right deare in our regard; Lutius by this our Signet free the Queene from Prison, And give her knowledge of her Princely sonne: O were our Daughter found, so much I love thee, Thou should'st enjoy my bright Leodice. We thanke our Brothers love to grace our friend, For to his worth we can no gift extend. What shouts are these? Looke out. Out of my way Sir: oh my heart! Why what's the matter? The matter say yee? pray let me gape alittle; was out of my wits before with feare, and now for joy. Oh my heart, I thinke in my conscience I have not so much winde left in my belly as will blow out a Candle: The Princesse, the Princesse Sir.