The Misfortunes of Arthur (Certain Devices and Shows Presented to Her Majesty) · chunk 26 of 35
Hughes, Thomas / Fulbecke, William · published 1587 · first performed or written 1588 [Feb 28] (Annals) tragedy · before the Court unassigned nearest T25 Kings, power and law: political sententi · 472 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T25: feare, kings, power, princes, lawes, loue, state, downe, honor, men.
But what? Did Mordred's eyes endure this sight? They did. And he himself the spur of fiends And Gorgon's all, lest any part of his scaped free from guilt, inflame their minds to wrath. And, with a valour more, than Virtue yields, He cheer them all, and at their back with long Outreached spear, stirred up each lingering hand. All fury like frounced up with frantic frets. He bids them leave and shun the meaner sort, He shows the Kings, and Britain noblest peers. He was not now to seek what blood to draw: He knew what juice refreshed his fainting Crown. Too much of Arthur's heart. O had he wist How great a vice such virtue was as then. In Civil wars, in rooting up his Realm? O frantic fury, far from valour's praise. There fell Aschillus stout of Denmark King, There valiant Gavin Arthur's Nephew dear, And late by angel's death made Alban King, By Mordred'S hand hath lost both life and Crown. There Gilla wounded Cador Cornish Duke, In hope to win the Dukedom for his meed. The Norway King, the Saxons Duke, and Picts, In woeful sort fell groveling to the ground. There Prince and Peasant both lay hurled on heaps: Mars frowned on Arthur's mates: the Fates waxed fierce, And jointly ran their race with Mordred'S rage. But with what joy (alas) shall he return, That thus returns, the happier for this field? These odds endure not long, for Mars retires, And Fortune pleased with Arthur's moderate fear, Returns more full, and friendlier than her wont. For when he saw the powers of Fates opposed, And that the dreadful hour thus hastened on: Perplexed much in mind, at length resolves, That fear is covered best by daring most. Then forth he pitched: the Saxon Duke withstood, Whom with one stroke he headless sent to Hell. Not far from thence he spied the Irish King, Whose life he took as price of broken truce. Then Cador forward priest, and haply met The Traitor Gilla, worker of these wars, Of whom by death he took his due revenge. The remnant then of both the Camps concur, They Britons all, or most: few foreigns left. These wage the wars, and hence the deaths ensue. Nor t'one, nor tother side, that can destroy His foes so fast, as 'tis itself destroyed. The brethren broach their blood: the Sire his Sons, The Son again would prove by too much Wrath, That he, whom thus he slew, was not his Sire. No blood nor kin can suage their ireful moods. No foreign foe they seek, nor care to find: The Britons blood is sought on every side. A vain discourse it were to paint at large The several Fates, and foils of either side. To tell what groans and sighs the parting Ghosts
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)
But what? Did Mordreds eyes indure this sight? They did. And he himselfe the spurre of fiends And Gorgons all, least any part of his Scapt freé from guilt, enflamde their mindes to wrath. And, with a valure more, then Uertue yeélds, He chearde them all, and at their backe with long Outreached speare, stirde vp each lingring hand. All furie like frounst vp with frantick frets. He bids them leaue and shunne the meaner sort, He shewes the Kings, and Brytaines noblest peeres. He was not now to seéke what bloud to drawe: He knewe what iuice refresht his fainting Crowne. Too much of Arthurs hart. O had he wist How great a vice such vertue was as then. In Ciuill warres, in rooting vp his Realme? O frantike fury, farre from Ualures praise. There fell Aschillus stout of Denmarke King, There valiant Gawin Arthurs Nephew deare, And late by Angels death made Albane King, By Mordreds hand hath lost both life and Crowne. There Gilla wounded Cador Cornish Duke, In hope to winne the Dukedome for his meede. The Norway King, the Saxons Duke, and Picts, In wofull sort fell groueling to the ground. There Prince and Peasant both lay hurlde on heapes: Mars frownde on Arthurs mates: the Fates waxt fierce, And iointly ranne their race with Mordreds rage. But with what ioy (alas) shall he returne, That thus returnes, the happier for this fielde? These odds indure not long, for Mars retires, And Fortune pleasde with Arthurs moderate feare, Returnes more full, and friendlyer then her woont. For when he saw the powers of Fates opposde, And that the dreadfull houre thus hastened on: Perplexed much in minde, at length resolues, That feare is couered best by daring most. Then forth he pitcht: the Saxon Duke withstoode, Whom with one stroke he headlesse sent to Hell. Not farre from thence he spide the Irish King, Whose life he tooke as price of broken truce. Then Cador foreward prest, and haplie mette The Traytor Gilla, worker of these warres, Of whom by death he tooke his due reuenge. The remnant then of both the Camps concurre, They Brytaines all, or most: few Forreines left. These wage the warres, and hence the deaths insue. Nor t'one, nor t'other side, that can destroy His foes so fast, as tis it selfe destroyed. The brethren broach their bloud: the Sire his Sonnes, The Sonne againe would proue by too much Wrath, That he, whom thus he slew, was not his Sire. No blood nor kinne can swage their irefull moodes. No forreine foe they seéke, nor care to finde: The Brytaines bloud is sought on euery side. A vaine discourse it were to paint at large The seuerall Fates, and foiles of either side. To tell what grones and sighes the parting Ghosts