The Misfortunes of Arthur (Certain Devices and Shows Presented to Her Majesty) · chunk 21 of 35
Hughes, Thomas / Fulbecke, William · published 1587 · first performed or written 1588 [Feb 28] (Annals) tragedy · before the Court unassigned nearest T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho · 531 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
If we without offence (O greatest guide Of British name? may pour our just complaints: We most mislike that your too mild a mood Hath thus withheld our hands and swords from strokes. For what? were we behind in any help? Or without cause did you misdoubt our force, Or truth so often tried with good success? Go to: Conduct your army to the field, Place man to man, oppose us to our foes: As much we ne to work, as wish your weal. seems it so sour to win by civil wars? Were it to gore with Pike my father's breast, Were it to rive and cleave my brother's head, Were it to tear piecemeal my dearest child, I would enforce my grudging hands to help. I cannot term that place my native soil, Whereto your trumpets send their warlike sounds. If case required to batter down the Towers Of any Town, that Arthur would destroy: Yea, were't of Britons self, which most I read: Her bulwarks, fortress, rampires, walls and fence, These arms should rear the Rams to run them down. Wherefore ye Princes, and the rest my mates, If what I have averred in all your names, Be likewise such as stands to your content, Let all your yes avow my promise true. Yea, yea, etc. Wherein renowned King myself, or mine, My life, my Kingdom, and all Denmark power May serve your turn, account them all your own. And whatsoe'er my force or Norwaie aid May help in your attempts, I vow it here. As heretofore I always served your hest, So let this day be judge of Gavin's trust. Either my brother Mordred dies the death By mine assault, or I at least by his. Since thus (my faithful mates) with vows alike, And equal love to Arthur's cause you join In common care, to wreak my private wrongs: Lift up your Ensigns efts, stretch out your strengths, Pursue your Fates, perform your hopes to Mars, Lo here the last and outmost work for blades. This is the time that all our valour craves. This time by due desert restores again Our goods, our lands, our lives, our weal and all. This time declares by Fates whose cause is best, This, this condemns the vanquished side of guilt. Wherefore if for my sake you scorn yourselves, And spare no sword nor fire in my defence: Then whiles my censure justifies your cause, Fight, fight amain: and clear your blades from crime, The judge once changed, no wars are free from guilt. The better cause gives us the greater hope Of prosperous wars, wherein if once I hap To spy the wonted signs, that never failed Their guide, your threatening looks, your fiery eyes, And bustling bodies priest to present spoil: The field is won. even then methinks I see The wonted waists, and scattered heads of foes, The Irish carcase kicked, and Picts oppressed, And Saxons slain, to swim in streams of blood. I quake with hope. I can assure you all, We never had a greater match in hand. March on: delay no Fates whiles Fortune fawns, The greatest praise of wars consists in speed.
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)
If we without offence (O greatest guide Of Brytish name? may poure our iust complaints: We most mislike that your too milde a moode Hath thus withheld our hands and swords from strokes. For what? were we behind in any helpe? Or without cause did you misdoubt our force, Or truth so often tried with good successe? Goe to: Conduct your army to the fielde, Place man to man, oppose vs to our foes: As much we neéde to worke, as wish your weale. Seémes it so sowre to winne by ciuill warres? Were it to goare with Pike my fathers braest, Were it to riue and cleaue my brothers head, Were it to teare peécemeale my dearest childe, I would inforce my grudging handes to helpe. I cannot terme that place my natiue soyle, Whereto your trumpets send their warrlike sounds. If case requir'd to batter downe the Towres Of any Towne, that Arthur would destroy: Yea, wer't of Brytaines selfe, which most I rede: Her bulwarkes, fortresse, rampiers, walles and fence, These armes should reare the Rams to runne them downe. Wherefore ye Princes, and the rest my mates, If what I haue auerd in all your names, Be likewise such as stands to your content, Let all your Yeas auow my promise true. Yea, yea, &c. Wherein renowmed King my selfe, or mine, My life, my Kingdome, and all Denmarke powre May serue your turne, account them all your owne. And whatsoe'r my force or Norwaie aide May helpe in your attempts, I vow it here. As heretofore I alwayes serude your heast, So let this daie be iudge of Gawins trust. Either my brother Mordred dies the death By mine assault, or I at least by his. Since thus (my faithfull mates) with vowes alike, And equall loue to Arthurs cause you ioyne In common care, to wreake my priuate wrongs: Lift vp your Ensignes efts, stretch out your strengths, Pursue your Fates, performe your hopes to Mars, Loe here the last and outmost worke for blades. This is the time that all our valour craues. This time by due desert restores againe Our goods, our lands, our liues, our weale and all. This time declares by Fates whose cause is best, This, this condemnes the vanquisht side of guilt. Wherefore if for my sake you scorne your selues, And spare no sword nor fire in my defence: Then whiles my censure iustifies your cause, Fight, fight amaine: and cleare your blades from crime, The Iudge once changde, no warres are free from guilt. The better cause giues vs the greater hope Of prosperous warres, wherein if once I hap To spie the wonted signes, that neuer failde Their guide, your threatning lookes, your firie eies, And bustling bodies prest to present spoile: The field is wonne. Euen then me thinkes I see The wonted wasts, and scattered heads of foes, The Irish carcas kickt, and Pictes opprest, And Saxons slaine, to swim in streames of bloud. I quake with hope. I can assure you all, We neuer had a greater match in hand. March on: delaie no Fates whiles Fortune fawnes, The greatest praise of warres consists in speed.