The Three Lords and Three Ladies of London · chunk 30 of 41
Wilson, Robert · published 1590 · first performed or written 1588 [1588-1590] (Annals) moral · Queen Elizabeth's Men (?) unassigned nearest T59 Spanish courts: war, honour and courtshi · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T59: andrea, spain, portugal, tribute, horatio, king, bellimperia, prince, lord, lorenzo.
Agedum, Go to then and declare thy Lords, their shields, their pages, and their purpose. Speak man, fear not, though Spain use messengers ill, 'tis England's guise to entreat them courteously. Three cavalieroes Castillianos here, Without compeers in compass of this world: Are come to conquer, as full well they shall this molehill Isle, that little England hight, With London that proud paltry market town, And take those dame's Love, Lucre, Conscience Prisoners, to use or force as pleaseth them. The first (now quake) is Spanish Majesty, That for his impreze gives Queen Juno's Bird, Whose train is spanged with Argus hundred eyes, the Queen of Gods scorns not to grace him so. His word is Non par illi, none his like: Yet is his page or henchman Modesty, Lucre the Lady that shall be his prize: And in his pendent on his Lances point, Sur le Ciel his word, above the heavens. whilom indeed above the heavens he was, Could be have kept him in that blessed state, From thence for pride he fell to pit of pain, And is he now become the pride of Spain? And so his page not Modesty but Shame. Well, on the rest. Don Honour is the next grand peer of spain, Whose impreze is a Courser salient. Of colour Sables, darkening air and earth, Pressing the Globe with his disdainful foot. And sallying to aspire to rolling skies, Non sufficit orbis is his haughty word, The world sufficeth not high Honour's thoughts, And on the pendent fixed en his Lance, A hand is catching at the sunny beams: gloriam Phoebi, and the sun's bright coach. Honour would guide, if he might have his will. His Page is Action tempering still with state. Himself Ambition, whom the heavens do hate, and Love the Lady that he hopes to gain, His thoughts distract from foul distempered brain Proves him the very firebrand of Spain: And in his shield his black disordered beast, Scaling the skies, scornful to tread the ground, And both his words, proud words prove perfectly Action his page to be but Treachery, Ever attendant on Ambition: but to the third. The third ground Cavaliero is Government, Severe in justice, and in judgement deep: His impreze is a naked Infant gored Upon a Lance, signifying, severity. His word, pour sangue, for blood of enemies He bends his sources: on his pendent is A Lyger licking of a bleeding heart: And Cura Cruor is the word thereon, His care's for blood of those that dare resist: Yet hight his Page that follows him, Regard, and he for Conscience to this conquest comes. The Government of Spain is Tyranny, as do his impreze and his words declare, His Page is Terror: for a Tyrant fears His death, in diet, in his bed, in sleep, In conscience: Spite the Spanish tyranny Hath shed a sea of most unguilty blood: Well, what's the end? The end is best you yield, submitting you to mercy of these Lords.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T13 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Agedum, Go too then and declare thy Lords, their shields, their pages, and their purpose. Speak man, feare not, though Spain vse messengers il, Tis Englands guise to entreat them curteously. Three Caualieros Castillianos here, Without Compeeres in compasse of this world: Are come to conquer, as ful wel they shal this mool-hill Isle, that litle England hight, With London that proud paltrie market towne, And take those Dames Loue, Lucre, Conscience Prisoners, to vse or force as pleaseth them. The first (now quake) is Spanish Maiesty, That for his ympreze giues Queene Iunoes Bird, Whose traine is spangd with Argus hundred eies, the Quéene of Gods scornes not to grace him so. His woord is Non par illi, none his like: Yet is his page or hench-man Modesty, Lucre the Lady that shal be his prize: And in his pendent on his Lances point, Sur le Ciel his word, aboue the heauens. Whileme indeed aboue the heauens he was, Could be haue kept him in that blessed state, From thence for pride he fell to pit of paine, And is he now become the pride of Spaine? And so his page not Modesty but Shame. Wel, on the rest. Don Honor is the next grand peere of spain, Whose ympreze is a Courser saliant. Of colour Sables, darkening aire and earth, Pressing the Globe with his disdainfull foot. And sallieng to aspire to rowling skies, Non sufficit orbis is his haughtie woord, The world sufficeth not high Hono thoughtes, And on the pendent fixed en his Lance, A hand is catching at the sunnie beames: & gloriam Phoebi, and the Suns bright coatch. Honor would guide, if he might haue his wil. His Page is Action tempering stil with state. Himselfe Ambition, whom the heauens do hate, and Loue the Lady that he hopes to gaine, His thoughts distract from foule distempered brain Prooues him the verie firebrand of Spain: And in his shield his blacke disordered beast, Scaling the skies, scornfull to tread the ground, And both his words, proud words prooue perfectly Action his page to be but Treachery, Euer attendant on Ambition: but to the third. The third ground Caualiero is Gouernment, Seuere in Iustice, and in iudgment déepe: His ympreze is a naked Infant goar'd Vpon a Lance, signifing, seueritie. His word, pour sangue, for blood of enemies He bendes his sorces: on his pendent is A Lyger licking of a bleeding heart: And Cura Cruor is the word thereon, His care's for blood of those that dare resist: Yet hight his Page that followes him, Regard, and he for Conscience to this conquest comes. The Gouernment of spaine is Tyrannie, as doo his ympreze and his words declare, His Page is Terror: for a Tyrant feares His death, in diet, in his bed, in sleepe, In conscience: Spight the Spanish tyrannie Hath shed a sea of most vnguilty blood: Wel, what's the end? The end is best you yeeld, submitting you to mercy of these Lords.