Rawlins, Thomas · published 1640 · first performed or written 1638 [1637-1639] (Annals) tragedy · King's Revels Company unassigned nearest T50 Fleets, armies and generals: war by sea · 494 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
What means this capering Echo? Or from whence did this so lively Counterfeit Of Thunder, break out to liberty? 'Tis from the City. It cannot be, their voice, should outroar Iove; Our Army like a Basilisk, has struck Death through their eyes; our number like a wind, Broke from the Icy prison of the North, Has froze the Portals to their shivering hearts; They scarce have breath enough to speak't: They live. 'tis certainly from thence. You're deceived, poor Spaniards fear Has changed their elevated Gate to a dejection Their Planet struck. 'Tis from our jocund Fleet, my Genius prompts me; They have already ploughed the unruly seas, And with their breasts, proof 'gainst the battering Waves dashed the big billows into angry froth, And spite of the contentious full mouthed gods Of Sea and wind, have reached the City frontiers, And begirt her Navigable Skirts. Again: 'tis so. My Creeds another way; I have no faith but to the City. Here's one, Now we shall know: ha! he appears Like one composed of horror. What speaks thy troubled front? Speak crimson Metor. Speak Prodigy, or on my sword thou fallest. The bold Spaniards, setting aside all cold acknowledgement Of any odds, or notice of the number our Army Is made proud with, sends from their Walls More lightning, than great Iove affrights The trembling world with, when the air Is turned to mutiny. Villain thou liest; 'Twere madness to believe thee. Foolish Spain, may like those Giants, that Heaped hill on hill, mountain on mountain, To pluck Iove from heaven, who with A hand of vengeance flung 'em down beneath The centure, and those Cloud contemning Mounts, Heaved by the strength of their ambitious Arms, Became their Monuments: so Spain's rash Folly, from this arm of mine, shall find their Graves amongst the rubbish of their Ruined Cities. What another! thy hasty news? The daring enemies have through their gates Made a victorious sally; all our troops Have jointly like the dust before the wind, Made a dishonoured flight: Hark The Conquering foe makes hitherward. Run to my Tent, fetch my Philippa: Slave why movest thou not? The enemy's upon us. Shall I send thy coward soul down the Vaults of Horror: fly Villain, or thou diest. Let one post to my Castle, and conduct my Lady, Tell her I have a prisoner would become proud In her forc't captivity to wait upon her beauty: Fly, let not the tardy clouds outsail thee. Canst thou proud man think that Philipa's Heart, is humbled with her fortunes, (no didst thou Bring all the rough tortures From the world's Childhood) to this hour invented, And on my resolute body, proof against pain, Practised Sicilian tyranny. My Giant thoughts should like a cloud of wind, Contemning smoke, mingle with heaven: And not a look so base, as to be pitied, shall Give you cause of triumph. 'Fore heaven a fiery girl. A Masculine spirit. An Amazon.
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)
What meanes this capering Eccho? Or from whence did this so lively Counterfeit Of Thunder, breake out to liberty? 'Tis from the City. It cannot be, their voyce, should out-roare Iove; Our Army like a Bassiliske, has strucke Death through their eyes; our number like a wind, Broke from the Icy prison of the North, Has froze the Portalls to their shivering hearts; They scarce have breath enough to speake't: They live. 'Ts certainely from thence. Y'are deceived, poore Spaniards feare Ha's chang'd their elevated Gate to a dejection Their Planet strooke. 'Tis from our jocond Fleet, my Genius prompts me; They have already plough'd the unruly seas, And with their breats, proofe 'gainst the battering Waves dasht the bigge billowes into angry froth, And spight of the contentious full mouth'd gods Of Sea and wind, have reach't the Citty frontiers, And begirt her Navigable Skirts. Againe: 'tis so. My Creeds another way; I have no faith but to the City. Here's one, Now we shall know: ha! he appeares Like one compos'd of horrour. What speakes thy troubled front? Speak crimson Metor. Speake Prodigy, or on my sword thou fallst. The bold Spaniards, setting aside al cold acknowledgment Of any oddes, or notice of the number our Army Is made proud with, sends from their Walls More lightning, than great Iove afrights The trembling world with, when the aire Is turned to muteny. Villaine thou lyest; 'Twere madnesse to beleeve thee. Foolish Spaine, may like those Giants, that Heapt hill on hill, mountaine on mountaine, To plucke Iove from heaven, who with A hand of vengeance flung 'em downe beneath The centure, and those Cloud contemning Mounts, Heav'd by the strength of their ambitious Armes, Became their Monuments: so Spaines rash Folly, from this arme of mine, shall find their Graves amongst the rubbish of their Ruin'd Cities. What another! thy hasty newes? The daring enemies have through their gates Made a victorious falley; all our troopes Have joyntly like the dust before the wind, Made a dishonoured flight: Harke The Conquering foe makes hitherward. Runne to my Tent, fetch my Philippa: Slave why mov'st thou not? The enemy's upon us. Shall I send thy coward soule down the Vaults of Horrour: flye Villaine, or thou dyest. Let one post to my Castle, and conduct my Lady, Tell her I have a prisoner wou'd become proud In her forc't captivity to waite upon her beauty: Flye, let not the tardy clouds out-saile thee. Canst thou proud man thinke that Philipa's Heart, is humbled with her fortunes, (no didst thou Bring all the rough tortures From the worlds Child-hood) to this houre invented, And on my resolute body, proofe against paine, Practis'd Scicilian tyranny. My Gyant thoughts should like a cloud of wind, Contemning smoak, mingle with heaven: And not a looke so base, as to be pittied, shall Give you cause of triumph. 'Fore heaven a fiery girle. A Masculine spirit. An Amazon.