The Misfortunes of Arthur (Certain Devices and Shows Presented to Her Majesty) · chunk 20 of 35
Hughes, Thomas / Fulbecke, William · published 1587 · first performed or written 1588 [Feb 28] (Annals) tragedy · before the Court unassigned nearest T50 Fleets, armies and generals: war by sea · 542 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
O Friends and fellows of my weariest toils, Which have borne out with me so many brunts, And desperate storms of wars and brainsick Mars. Lo now the hundredth month wherein we win. Hath all the blood we spent in foreign Coasts, The wounds, and deaths, and winter's bode abroad, Deserved thus to be disgraced at home? All Britain rings of wars: No town, nor field But swarms with armed troops: the mustering trains Stop up the streets: no less a tumult's raised, Then when Hengistus fell and Horsus fierce With treacherous truce did overrun the Realm. Each corner threateneth Death: both far and near Is Arthur vexed. What if my force had failed, And standard fallen, and ensigns all been torn, And Roman troops pursued me at the heels, With luckless wars assayed in foreign soils? Now that our Fortune heaves us up thus high, And Heavens themselves renew our old renown: Must we be dared? Nay, let that Princock come, That knows not yet himself, nor Arthur's force, That ne'er yet waged wars, that's yet to learn To give the charge: Yea let that Princock come, With sudden Soldiers pampered up in peace, And gowned troops, and wantons worn with ease: With sluggish Saxons crew, and Irish kerns, And Scottish aid, and false redhshanked Picts, Whose slaughters yet must teach their former foil. They shall perceive with sorrow ere they part, When all their toils be told, that nothing works So great a waste and ruin in this age, As do my wars. O Mordred blessed Son: No doubt, these market mates so highly hired Must be the stay of thy usurped state. And lest my head inclining now to years, Should joy the rest, which yet it never reaped: The Traitor Gilla, trained in treacherous jars, Is chief in arms, to reave me of my Realm. What corner (ah) for all my wars shall shroud My bloodless age? what seat for due deserts? What town, or field for ancient soldiers rest? What house? What roof? What walls for wearied limbs? Stretch out again, stretch out your conquering hands, Still must we use the force so often used. To those, that will pursue a wrong with wreak, He giveth all, that once denies the right. Thou soil which erst Diana did ordain The certain seat and bower of wandering Brute: Thou Realm which aye I reverence as my Saint, Thou stately Britain th'ancient type of Troy, Bear with my forced wrongs: I am not he, That willing would impeach thy peace with wars. Lo here both far and wide I Conqueror stand, Arthur each where thine own, thy Liege, thy King. Condemn not mine attempts: he, only he Is sole in fault, that makes me thus thy foe. Here I renounce all leagues and treats of truce, Thou Fortune henceforth art my guard and guide. Hence peace, on wars, run Fates, let Mars be judge, I erst did trust to right, but now to rage. Go: tell the boy that Arthur fears no brags, In vain he seeks to brave it with his Sire. I come (Mordred) I come, but to thy pain. Yea, tell the boy his angry father comes, To teach a novice both to die, and dare.
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)
O Friends and fellowes of my weriest toyles, Which haue borne out with me so many brunts, And desperate stormes of wars and brainsicke Mars. Loe now the hundreth month wherein we winne. Hath all the bloud we spent in forreine Coasts, The wounds, and deaths, and winters boad abroade, Deserued thus to be disgrac'd at home? All Brytaine rings of warres: No towne, nor fielde But swarmes with armed troupes: the mustering traines Stop vp the streétes: no lesse a tumult's raisde, Then when Hengistus fell and Horsus fierce With treacherous truce did ouerrunne the Realme. Each corner threatneth Death: both farre and nere Is Arthur vext. What if my force had faild, And standarde falne, and ensignes all beene torne, And Roman troupes pursude me at the heéles, With lucklesse warres assaid in forreine soiles? Now that our Fortune heaues vs vp thus hie, And Heauens themselues renewe our olde renowme: Must we be darde? Nay, let that Princocke come, That knowes not yet himselfe, nor Arthurs force, That ne'r yet waged warres, that's yet to learne To giue the charge: Yea let that Princocke come, With sodayne Souldyers pampered vp in peace, And gowned troupes, and wantons worne with ease: With sluggish Saxons crewe, and Irish kernes, And Scottish aide, and false redshanked Picts, Whose slaughters yet must teach their former foyle. They shall perceaue with sorrow e'r they part, When all their toyles be tolde, that nothing workes So great a wast and ruine in this age, As doe my warres. O Morred blessed Sonne: No doubt, these market mates so highly hier'd Must be the stay of thy vsurped state. And least my head inclining now to yeares, Should ioy the rest, which yet it neuer reapt: The Traytor Gilla, traind in treacherous iarres, Is chiefe in armes, to reaue me of my Realme. What corner (ah) for all my warres shall shrowde My bloodlesse age? what seate for due deserts? What towne, or field for auncient Souldiers rest? What house? What rooffe? What walls for weried lims? Stretch out againe, stretch out your conquering hands, Still must we vse the force so often vsde. To those, that will pursue a wrong with wreke, He giueth all, that once denies the right. Thou soile which erst Diana did ordaine The certaine seate and bowre of wandring Brute: Thou Realme which ay I reuerence as my Saint, Thou stately Brytaine th'auncient tipe of Troy, Beare with my forced wrongs: I am not he, That willing would impeach thy peace with warres. Lo here both farre and wide I Conqueror stand, Arthur each where thine owne, thy Liedge, thy King. Condemne not mine attempts: he, onely he Is sole in fault, that makes me thus thy foe. Here I renounce all leagues and treats of truce, Thou Fortune henceforth art my garde and guide. Hence peace, on warres, runne Fates, let Mars be iudge, I erst did trust to right, but now to rage. Goe: tell the boy that Arthur feares no brags, In vaine he seekes to braue it with his Sire. I come (Mordred) I come, but to thy paine. Yea, tell the boy his angry father comes, To teach a Nouist both to die, and dare.