Marlowe, Christopher · published 1594 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1593] (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho typicality 0.89 · 512 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
'tis not amiss my liege for either part, To breath a while, our men with sweat and dust All choked well near, begin to faint for heat, And this retire refresheth horse and man. Here come the rebels. Look Lancaster, yonder is Edward among his flatterers. And there let him be, till he pay dearly for their company. And shall or Warwick's sword shall smite in vain. What rebels, do you shrink, and sound retreat? No Edward, no, thy flatterers faint and fly. they'd best betimes forsake thee and their trains, For they'll betray thee, traitors as they are. Traitor on thy face, rebellious Lancaster. Away base upstart, brav'st thou nobles thus. A noble attempt, and honourable deed, Is it not trow ye, to assemble aid, And levy arms against your lawful king? For which ere long, their heads shall satisfy, T'appease the wrath of their offended king. Then Edward, thou wilt fight it to the last, And rather bathe thy sword in subjects blood, Then banish that pernicious company. I traitors all, rather than thus be braved, Make England's civil towns huge heaps of stones, And ploughs to go about our palace gates. A desperate and unnatural resolution, Alarum to the fight, saint George for England, And the Barons right. S. George for England, and king Edward's right. Now lusty lords, now not by chance of war, But justice of the quarrel and the cause Veiled is your pride, methinks you hang the head But we'll advance them traitors, now 'tis time To be avenged on you for all your braves, And for the murder of my dearest friend, To whom right well you knew our soul was knit, Good Pierce of Gaveston my sweet favourite, A rebels, recreants, you made him away. Brother, in regard of thee and of thy land, Did they remove that flatterer from thy throne. So sir, you have spoke, away, avoid our presence, Accursed wretches, was't in regard of us, When we had sent our messenger to request He might be spared to come to speak with us, And Pembroke undertook for his return, That thou proud Warwick watched the prisoner, Poor Pierce, and headed him against law of arms, For which thy head shall over look the rest. As much as thou in rage out went'st the rest? Tyrant, I scorn thy threats and menaces, 'tis but temporal that thou canst inflict. The worst is death, and better die to live, Then live in infamy under such a king. Away with them my lord of Winchester, These lusty leaders Warwick and Lancaster, I charge you roundly off with both their heads, away. Farewell vain world. Sweet Mortimer farewell. England, unkind to thy nobility, Groan for this grief, behold how thou art maimed. Go take that haughty Mortimer to the tower, There see him safe bestowed, and for the rest, Do speedy execution on them all, be gone. What Mortimer? can ragged stony wall ure thy vertue that aspires to heauen, No Edward, England's scourge, it may not be, Mortimers hope surmounts his fortune far.
seed 43: T22 · seed 44: T13 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Tis not amisse my liege for eyther part, To breathe a while, our men with sweat and dust All chockt well neare, begin to faint for heate, And this retire refresheth horse and man. Heere come the rebels. Looke Lancaster, yonder is Edward among his flatterers. And there let him bee, till hee pay deerely for their companie. And shall or Warwicks sword shal smite in vaine. What rebels, do you shrinke, and sound retreat? No Edward, no, thy flatterers faint and flie. Th'ad best betimes forsake thee and their trains, For theile betray thee, traitors as they are. Traitor on thy face, rebellious Lancaster. Away base vpstart, brau'st thou nobles thus. A noble attempt, and honourable deed, Is it not trowe ye, to assemble aide, And leuie armes against your lawfull king? For which ere long, their heads shall satisfie, T'appeaze the wrath of their offended king. Then Edward, thou wilt fight it to the last, And rather bathe thy sword in subiects bloud, Then banish that pernicious companie. I traitors all, rather then thus be braude, Make Englands ciuill townes huge heapes of stones, And plowes to go about our pallace gates. A desperate and vnnaturall resolution, Alarum to the fight, saint George for England, And the Barons right. S. George for England, and king Edwards right. Now lustie lords, now not by chance of warre, But iustice of the quarrell and the cause Vaild is your pride, me thinkes you hang the head But weele aduance them traitors, now tis time To be auengd on you for all your braues, And for the murther of my deerest friend, To whome right well you knew our soule was knit, Good Pierce of Gaueston my sweet fauoret, A rebels, recreants, you made him away. Brother, in regard of thee and of thy land, Did they remooue that flatterer from thy throne. So sir, you haue spoke, away, auoid our presence, Accursed wretches, wast in regard of vs, When we had sent our messenger to request He might be spared to come to speake with vs, And Penbrooke vndertooke for his returne, That thou proud Warwicke watcht the prisoner, Poore Pierce, and headed him against lawe of armes, For which thy head shall ouer looke the rest. As much as thou in rage out wentst the rest? Tyrant, I scorne thy threats and menaces, Tis but temporall that thou canst inflict. The worst is death, and better die to liue, Then liue in infamie vnder such a king. Away with them my lord of Winchester, These lustie leaders Warwicke and Lancaster, I charge you roundly off with both their heads, away. Farewell vaine worlde. Sweete Mortimer farewell. England, vnkinde to thy nobilitie, Grone for this greefe, behold how thou art maimed. Go take that haughtie Mortimer to the tower, There see him safe bestowed, and for the rest, Do speedie execution on them all, be gon. What Mortimer? can ragged stonie walle ure thy vertue that aspires to heauen, Edward, Englands scourge, it may not be, Mortimers hope surmounts his fortune farre.