The Misfortunes of Arthur (Certain Devices and Shows Presented to Her Majesty) · chunk 27 of 35
Hughes, Thomas / Fulbecke, William · published 1587 · first performed or written 1588 [Feb 28] (Annals) tragedy · before the Court unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 475 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Sent forth: who dying bare the fellest breast: Who changed cheer at any Briton's fall: Who oftenest struck: who best bestowed his blade: Who ventured most: who stood: who fell: who failed: Th'effect declares it all: thus fared the field. Of both these Hosts so huge and main at first, There were not left on either side a score, For Son, and Sire to win, and lose the Realm. The which when Mordred saw, and that his Sire 'gainst foes, and Fares themselves would win the field, He sighed, and twixt despair and rage he cried, Here (Arthur) here, and hence the Conquest comes: Whiles Mordred lives, the Crown is yet unwon. Hereat the prince of prowess much amazed, With thrilling tears, and countenance cast on ground, Did groaning fetch a deep and earnful sigh. anon they fierce encountering both concurred, With grisly looks, and faces like their Fates: But dispar minds, and inward moods unlike. The Sire with mind to safeguard both, or t'one: The Son to spoil the t'one, or hazard both. No fear, nor fellness failed on either side: The wager lay on both their lives and bloods. At length when Mordred spied his force to faint, And felt himself oppressed with Arthur's strength, (O hapless lad, a match unmeet for him) He loathes to live in that afflicted state, And valiant with a forced Virtue, longs To die the death, in which perplexed mind, With grinning tooth, and crabbed looks he cries, I cannot win: yet will I not be won. What should we shun our Fates, or play with Mars, Or thus defraud the wars of both our bloods? Whereto do we reserve ourselves? Or why Be we not sought ere this, amongst the dead? So many thousands murdered in our cause, Must we survive, and neither win nor lose? The Fates that will not smile on either side, May frown on both: So saying forth he flings, And desperate runs on point of Arthur's Sword, (A Sword (alas) prepared for no such use) Whereon engored he glides, till near approached, With dying hand he hews his father's head. So through his own annoy, he 'noys his Liege: And gains by death access to daunt his Sire. There Mordred fell, but like a Prince he fell. And as a branch of great Pendragon's graft His life breaths out, his eyes forsake the Sun, And fatal Clouds infer a lasting eclipse. There Arthur staggering scant sustained himself, There Cador found a deep and deadly wound, There ceased the wars, and there was Britain lost. There lay the chosen youths of Mars, there lay The peerless Knights, Bellona's bravest train. There lay the Mirrors rare of Martial praise, There lay the hope and branch of Brute suppressed. There Fortune laid the prime of Britain pride, There laid her pomp, all topsy-turvy turned.
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)
Sent forth: who dying bare the fellest breast: Who chaunged cheare at any Brytaines fall: Who oftnest strooke: who best bestowde his blade: Who ventred most: who stoode: who fell: who failde: Th'effect declares it all: thus far'd the field. Of both these Hoasts so huge and maine at first, There were not left on either side a score▪ For Sonne, and Sire to winne, and loose the Realme. The which when Mordred saw, and that his Sire Gainst foes, and Fares themselues would winne the field▪ He sigh'd, and twixt despaire and rage he cryed, Here (Arthur) here, and hence the Conquest comes: Whiles Mordred liues, the Crowne is yet vnwoonne. Hereat the prince of prowesse much amaz'd, With thrilling teares, and countnance cast on ground, Did groaning fetch a deépe and earnefull sigh. Anone they fierce encountering both concur'd, With griesly lookes, and faces like their Fates: But dispar mindes, and inward moodes vnlike. The Sire with minde to safegard both, or t'one The Sonne to spoile the t'one, or hazard both. No feare, nor fellnes failde on either side: The wager lay on both their liues and bloods. At length when Mordred spyde his force to faint, And felt him selfe opprest with Arthurs strength, (O haplesse lad, a match vnmeéte for him) He loathes to liue in that afflicted state, And valiant with a forced Uertue, longs To die the death▪ in which perplexed minde, With grenning teéth, and crabbed lookes he cryes, I cannot winne: yet will I not be wonne. What should we shun our Fates, or play with Mars, Or thus defraude the warres of both our blouds? Whereto doe we reserue our selues? Or why Be we not sought ere this, amongest the dead? So many thousands murthred in our cause, Must we suruiue, and neither winne nor loose? The Fates that will not smile on either side, May frowne on both: So saying forth he flings, And desperate runs on point of Arthurs Sword, (A Sword (alas) prepar'd for no such vse) Whereon engoarde he glides, till nere approcht, With dying hand he hewes his fathers head. So through his owne annoy, he noyes his Liedge▪ And gaines by death accesse to daunt his Sire. There Mordred fell, but like a Prince he fell. And as a braunch of great Pendragons grafte His life breaths out, his eyes forsake the Sunne, And fatall Cloudes inferre a lasting Clips. There Arthur staggering scant sustaind him selfe, There Cador found a deepe and deadly wound, There ceast the warres, and there was Brytaine lost▪ There lay the chosen youths of Mars, there lay The peérelesse Knights, Bellona's brauest traine. There lay the Mirrours rare of Martiall praise, There lay the hope and braunch of Brute supprest. There Fortune laid the prime of Brytaines pride, There laide her pompe, all topsie turuie turnde.