The Misfortunes of Arthur (Certain Devices and Shows Presented to Her Majesty) · chunk 19 of 35
Hughes, Thomas / Fulbecke, William · published 1587 · first performed or written 1588 [Feb 28] (Annals) tragedy · before the Court unassigned nearest T2 Roman politics: senate, consuls and civi · 492 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
indeed, continual wars have chafed our minds, And good success hath bred impatient moods. Rome puffs us up, and makes us too too fierce: There, Britons, there we stand, whence Rome did fall. Thou Lucius mak'st me proud, thou heavest my mind: But what? shall I esteem a Crown ought else, Then as a gorgeous Crest of easeless Helm, Or as some brittle mould of glorious pomp, Or glittering glass, which, whiles it shines, it breaks? All this a sudden Chance may dash, and not Perhaps with thirteen Kings, or in nine years: All may not find so slow and lingering Fates. What, that my Country cries for due remorse And some relief for long sustained toils? By Seas and Lands I daily wrought her wreck, And spareless spent her life on every foe. Each where my Soldiers perished, whilst I won: Throughout the world my Conquest was their spoil. A fair reward for all their deaths, for all Their wars abroad, to give them civil wars. What boots it them reserved from foreign foils To die at home? What end of ruthless rage? At least let age, and Nature worn to nought, Provide at length their graves with wished groans. Pity their hoary hairs, their feéble fists, Their withered limbs, their strengths consumed in Camp. Must they still end their lives amongst the blades? Rests there no other Fate whiles Arthur reigns? What deem you me? a fury fed with blood, Or some Cyclopian borne and bred for brawls? Think on the mind, that Arthur bears to peace: Can Arthur please you nowhere but in wars? Be witness Heavens how far 'tis from my mind, Therewith to spoil or sack my native soil: I cannot yield, it brooks not in my breast, To seek her ruin, whom I erst have ruled. What relics now soe'er both civil broils, And foreign wars have left, let those remain: theyare few enough, and Britons fall too fast. LO here an herald sent from Mordred'S Camp, A froward message, if I read aright: We mought not stir his wrath: perhaps this may: Persuasions cannot move a Briton's mood, And yet none sooner stung with present wrong. Hail peerless Prince, whiles Fortune would, our King, Though now bereft of Crown and former rule. Vouchsafe me leave my message to impart, No jot enforced, but as your Son affords. If here you stay but three days to an end, And not forthwith discharge your bands and host, It's Mordred'S oath: Assure yourself to die. But if you find your courage so to serve, As for to stand to your defence with force, In Cornwall (if you dare) he'll try it out. Is this the choice my Son doth send his Sire, And must I die? Or try it if I dare? To die were ill, thus to be dared is worse. Display my standard forth, let Trump and Drum Call Soldiers near, to hear their sovereign's hest.
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)
Indeéde, continuall warres haue chafte our mindes, And good successe hath bred impatient moodes. Rome puffes vs vp, and makes vs too too fierce: There, Brytaines, there we stand, whence Rome did fall. Thou Lucius mak'st me proude, thou heau'st my minde: But what? shall I esteéme a Crowne ought else, Then as a gorgeous Crest of easelesse Helme, Or as some brittel mould of glorious pompe, Or glittering glasse, which, whiles it shines, it breakes? All this a sodaine Chaunce may dash, and not Perhaps with thirteéne Kings, or in nine yeares: All may not finde so slowe and lingring Fates. What, that my Country cryes for due remorse And some reliefe for long sustained toyles? By Seas and Lands I dayly wrought her wrecke, And sparelesse spent her life on euery foe. Eche where my Souldiers perisht, whilest I wonne: Throughout the world my Conquest was their spoile. A faire reward for all their deaths, for all Their warres abroad, to giue them ciuill warres. What bootes it them reseru'd from forreine foiles To die at home? What ende of ruthelesse rage? At least let age, and Nature worne to nought, Prouide at length their graues with wished groanes. Pitty their hoary haires, their feéble fists, Their withered lims, their strengths consumde in Campe. Must they still ende their liues amongest the blades? Rests there no other Fate whiles Arthur raignes? What deéme you me? a furie sedde with blood, Or some Ciclopian borne and bred for braules? Thinke on the minde, that Arthur beares to peace: Can Arthur please you no where but in warres? Be witnesse Heauens how farre t'is from my minde, Therewith to spoile or sacke my natiue soile: I cannot yeélde, it brookes not in my breast, To seeke her ruine, whom I erst haue rulde. What reliques now so e'r both ciuill broyles, And forreine warres haue left, let those remaine: Th'are fewe inough, and Brytaines fall too fast. LO here an Herault sent from Mordreds Campe, A froward message, if I reede aright: We mought not stirre his wrath: perhaps this may: Perswasions cannot moue a Brytines moode, And yet none sooner stung with present wrong. Haile peérelesse Prince, whiles Fortune would, our King, Though now bereft of Crowne and former rule. Uouchsafe me leaue my message to impart, No iotte inforst, but as your Sonne affords. If here you stay but threé dayes to an ende, And not forthwith discharge your bands and hoast, It's Mordreds oath: Assure your selfe to die. But if you finde your courage so to serue, As for to stand to your defence with force, In Cornewell (if you dare) he'il trye it out. Is this the choyce my Sonne doth send his Sire, And must I die? Or trye it if I dare? To die were ill, thus to be dar'd is worse. Display my standart forth, let Trumpe and Drumme Call Souldiers nere, to heare their Soueraignes heast.