Marlowe, Christopher · published 1590 · first performed or written 1588 [1587-1588] (Annals) tragedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men unassigned nearest T46 Swords, quarrels and valour · 516 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T46: rapier, sword, fight, gentlemen, gentleman, kicked, kill, dagger, signor, valour.
My Lord, but this is dangerous to be done, We may be slain or wounded ere we learn. Villain, art thou the son of Tamburlaine, And fear'st to die, or with a Curtle-axe To hew thy flesh and make a gaping wound: Hast thou beheld a peal of ordinance strike A ring of pikes, mingled with shot and horse, Whose shattered limbs, being tossed as high as heaven, Hang in the air as thick as sunny motes, And canst thou Coward stand in fear of death: Hast thou not seen my horsemen charge the foe, Shot through the arms, cut overthwart the hands, Dying their lances with their streaming blood, And yet at night carouse within my tent, Filling their empty veins with airy wine, That being concocted, turns to crimson blood, And wilt thou shun the field for fear of wounds: View me thy father that hath conquered kings, And with his host march round about the earth, Quite void of scars, and clear from any wound, That by the wars lost not a dram of blood, And see him lance his flesh to teach you all. A wound is nothing be it near so deep, Blood is the God of Wars rich livery. Now look I like a soldier, and this wound As great a grace and majesty to me, As if a chair of gold enamelled, Enchased with Diamonds, sapphires, Rubies And fairest pearl of wealthy India Were mounted here under a canopy: And I sat down, clothed with the massy rob, That late adorned the Afrique Potentate. Whom I brought bound unto Damascus walls. Come boys and with your fingers search my wound, And in my blood wash all your hands at once, While I sit smiling to behold the sight. Now my boys, what think you of a wound? I know not what I should think of it, methinks 'tis a pitiful sight. 'tis nothing: give me a wound father. And me another my Lord. Come sirrah, give me your arm. Here father, cut it bravely as you did your own It shall suffice thou darest abide a wound My boy, Thou shalt not lose a drop of blood, Before we meet the army of the Turk. But then run desperate through the thickest throngs, Dreadless of blows, of bloody wounds and death: And let the burning of Larissa walls My speech of war, and this my wound you see Teach you my boys to bear courageous minds, Fit for the followers of great tamburlaine. Usumeasane now come let us march Towards Techelles and Theridamas, That we have sent before to fire the towns, The towers and cities of these hateful Turks, And hunt that Coward, faintheart, runaway, With that accursed traitor Almeda, Till fire and sword have found them at a bay. I long to pierce his bowels with my sword, That hath betrayed my gracious Sovereign, That cursed and damned Traitor Almeda. Then let us see if coward Callapin Dare levy arms against our puissance, That we may tread upon his captive neck, And treble all his father's slaveries.
seed 43: T47 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
My Lord, but this is dangerous to be done, We may be slaine or wounded ere we learne. Villain, art thou the sonne of Tamburlaine, And fear'st to die, or with a Curtle-axe To hew thy flesh and make a gaping wound: Hast thou beheld a peale of ordinance strike A ring of pikes, mingled with shot and horse, Whose shattered lims, being tost as high as heauen, Hang in the aire as thicke as sunny motes, And canst thou Coward stand in feare of death: Hast thou not seene my horsmen charge the foe, Shot through the armes, cut ouerthwart the hands, Dieng their lances with their streaming blood, And yet at night carrouse within my tent, Filling their empty vaines with aiery wine, That being concocted, turnes to crimson blood, And wilt thou shun the field for feare of woundes: View me thy father that hath conquered kings, And with his hoste martch round about the earth, Quite voide of skars, and cleare from any wound, That by the warres lost not a dram of blood, And see him lance his flesh to teach you all. A wound is nothing be it nere so deepe, Blood is the God of Wars rich liuery. Now look I like a souldier, and this wound As great a grace and maiesty to me, As if a chaire of gold enamiled, Enchac'd with Diamondes, Saphyres, Rubies And fairest pearle of welthie India Were mounted here vnder a Canapie: And I sat downe, cloth'd with the massie robe, That late adorn'd the Affrike Potentate. Whom I brought bound vnto Damascus walles. Come boyes and with your fingers search my wound, And in my blood wash all your hands at once, While I sit smiling to behold the sight. Now my boyes, what think you of a wound? I know not what I should think of it, Me thinks tis a pitifull sight. Tis nothing: giue me a wound father. And me another my Lord. Come sirra, giue me your arme. Here father, cut it brauely as you did your own It shall suffice thou darst abide a wound My boy, Thou shalt not loose a drop of blood, Before we meet the armie ef the Turke. But then run desperate through the thickest throngs, Dreadlesse of blowes, of bloody wounds and death: And let the burning of Larissa wals My speech of war, and this my wound you see Teach you my boyes to beare couragious minds, Fit for the followers of great tamburlaine. Vsumeasane now come let vs martch Towards Techelles and Theridamas, That we haue sent before to fire the townes, The towers and cities of these hatefull Turks, And hunt that Coward, faintheart, runaway, With that accursed traitor Almeda, Til fire and sword haue found them at a bay. I long to pierce his bowels with my sword, That hath betraied my gracious Soueraigne, That curst and damned Traitor Almeda. Then let vs see if coward Calapine Dare leuie armes against our puissance, That we may tread vpon his captiue necke, And treble all his fathers slaueries.