1 The Troublesome Reign of King John · chunk 20 of 29
Anonymous · published 1611 · first performed or written 1591 (Annals) history · Queen Elizabeth's Men T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea typicality 0.79 · 487 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
To England Lords, each look unto your charge, And arm yourselves against the Roman pride. What, every man attached with this mishap? Why frown you so, why droop ye Lords of France? Me thinks it differs from a warlike mind, To lower it for a check or two of Chance. Had Lymoges escaped the Bastard's spite, A little sorrow might have served our loss. Brave Austria, heaven joys to have thee there. His soul is safe and free from Purgatory▪ Our holy Father hath dispensed his sins, The blessed Saints have heard our Orisons, And all are mediators for his soul, And in the right of these most holy wars, His Holiness free pardon doth pronounce To all that follow you 'gainst English heretics, Who stand accursed in our mother Church. To aggravate the measure of our grief, All malcontent comes Constance for her Son. Be brief good Madam, for your face imports A tragic tale behind that's yet untold. Her passions stop the organ of her voice, Deep sorrow throbbeth misbefallen events, Out with it Lady, that our Act may end A full Catastrophe of sad laments. My tongue is tuned to story forth mishap: When did I breath to tell a pleasing tale? Must Constance speak? let tears prevent her talk: Must I discourse? let Dido sigh and say, She weeps again to hear the wrack of Troy: Two words will serve, and then my tale is done: Elnor's proud brat hath robbed me of my son. Have patience Madam, this is chance of war: He may be ransomed, we revenge his wrong. Be it ne'er so soon, I shall not live so long. Despair not yet, come Constance, go with me, These clouds will fleet, the day will clear again. Now Lewis, thy fortune buds with happy spring, Our holy Father's prayers effecteth this. Arthur is safe, let Iohn alone with him, Thy title next is fairest to England's Crown: Now stir thy father to begin with Iohn, The Pope says I, and so is Albion thine. Thanks my Lord Legate for your good conceit, 'tis best we follow now the game is fair, My father wants to work him your good words. A few will serve to forward him in this, Those shall not want: but let's about it then. Come on you fat Franciscan, dally no longer, but show me where the Abbot's treasure lies, or die. Benedicamus Domini, was ever such an injury▪ Sweet S. Withold of thy lenity, defend us from extremity, And hear us for S. Charity, oppressed with austerity. In nomini Domini, make I my homily, Gentle gentility grieve not the Clergy. Gray-gowned good face, conjure ye, near trust me for a groat If this waste girdle hang thee not that girdeth in thy coat. Now bald and barefoot Bungie birds, when up the gallows climbing, Say Philip he had words enough, to put you down with rhyming.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1025–1086 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 20 of 29 in this edition
Length
487 words · 666 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T10 — England and France: war, embassy and peacecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.792 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T8 · seed 44: T8 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
To England Lords, each looke vnto your charge, And arme your ſelues againſt the Roman pride. What, euery man attacht with this miſhap? Why frowne you ſo, why droope ye Lords of France? Me thinkes it differs from a warrelike minde, To lowre it for a checke or two of Chaunce. Had Lymoges eſcapt the Baſtards ſpight, A little ſorrow might haue ſerude our loſſe. Braue Austria, heauen ioyes to haue thee there. His ſoule is ſafe and free from Purgatorie▪ Our holy Father hath diſpenſt his ſinnes, The bleſſed Saints haue heard our Oriſons, And all are mediators for his ſoule, And in the right of theſe moſt holy warres, His Holineſſe free pardon doth pronounce To all that follow you gainſt Engliſh heretikes, Who ſtand accurſed in our mother Church. To aggrauate the meaſure of our greefe, All male-content comes Conſtance for her Sonne. Be breefe good Madame, for your face imports A tragicke tale behind thats yet vntold. Her paſſions ſtop the organ of her voyce, Deepe ſorrow throbbeth miſ-befalne euents, Out with it Ladie, that our Act may end A full Cataſtrophe of ſad laments. My tongue is tun'd to ſtorie forth miſhap: When did I breath to tell a pleaſing tale? Muſt Conſtance ſpeake? let teares preuent her talke: Muſt I diſcourſe? let Dido ſigh and ſay, Shee weepes againe to heare the wracke of Troy: Two words will ſerue, and then my tale is done: Elnors proud brat hath rob'd me of my ſonne. Haue patience Madame, this is chance of warre: He may be ranſom'd, we reuenge his wrong. Be it ne'r ſo ſoone, I ſhall not liue ſo long. Deſpaire not yet, come Conſtance, go with me, Theſe clouds will fleet, the day will cleare againe. Now Lewis, thy fortune buds with happy ſpring, Our holy Fathers prayers effecteth this. Arthur is ſafe, let Iohn alone with him, Thy title next is fairſt to Englands Crowne: Now ſtirre thy father to begin with Iohn, The Pope ſayes I, and ſo is Albion thine. Thanks my Lord Legat for your good conceit, T'is beſt we follow now the game is faire, My father wants to worke him your good words. A few will ſerue to forward him in this, Thoſe ſhall not want: but let's about it then. Come on you fat Franciſcan, dallie no longer, but ſhew me where the Abbots treaſure lies, or die. Benedicamus Domini, was euer ſuch an iniurie▪ Sweet S. Withold of thy lenitie, defend vs from extremitie, And heare vs for S. Charitie, oppreſſed with auſteritie. In nomini Domini, make I my homily, Gentle gentilitie grieue not the Cleargie. Gray-gown'd good face, coniure ye, nere truſt me for a groat If this waſt girdle hang thee not that girdeth in thy coat. Now bald and barefoot Bungie birds, when vp the gallowes climing, Say Philip he had words enough, to put you downe with riming.