Marlowe, Christopher · published 1594 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1593] (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T43 York and Lancaster: dynastic claims and · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T43: henry, king, richard, warwick, york, edward, father, duke, crown, son.
Fly, fly, my Lord, the Queen is overstrong. Her friends do multiply and yours do fail, Shape we our course to Ireland there to breath. What, was I borne to fly and run away, And leave the Mortimers conquerors behind? Give me my horse and let's reinforce our troops, And in this bed of honour die with fame. O no my lord, this princely resolution Fits not the time, away, we are pursued. This way he fled, but I am come too late, Edward, alas my heart relents for thee, Proud traitor Mortimer why dost thou chase Thy lawful king thy sovereign with thy sword? wild wretch, and why hast thou of all unkind, Borne arms against thy brother and thy king? Reign showers of vengeance on my cursed head Thou God, to whom in justice it belongs, To punish this unnatural revolt: Edward, this Mortimer aims at thy life: O fly him then, but Edmund calm this rage, Dissemble or thou diest, for Mortimer And Isabell do kiss while they conspire, And yet she bears a face of love forsooth: Fie on that love that hatcheth death and hate. Edmund away, Bristol to Longshanks blood Is false, be not found single for suspect: Proud Mortimer pries near into thy walks. Successful battles gives the God of kings, To them that fight in right and fear his wrath: Since then successfully we have prevailed, Thanks be heavens great architect and you, Ere farther we proceed my noble lords, We here create our well-beloved son, Of love and care unto his royal person, Lord warden of the realm, and sith the fates Have made his father so infortunate, Deal you my lords in this, my loving lords, As to your wisdoms fittest seems in all. Madam, without offence if I may ask, How will you deal with Edward in his fall? Tell me good uncle, what Edward do you mean? Nephew, your father, I dare not call him king. My lord of Kent, what needs these questions? 'tis not in her controlment, nor in ours, But as the realm and parliament shall please, So shall your brother be disposed of, I like not this relenting mood in Edmund, Madam, 'tis good to look to him betimes. My lord, the Maior of Bristol knows our mind. Yea madam, and they scape not easily, That fled the field. Baldock is with the king, A goodly chancellor, is he not my lord? So are the Spencers, the father and the son. This Edward is the ruin of the realm. God save Queen Isabell, & her princely son, Madam, the Maior and Citizens of Bristol, In sign of love and duty to this presence, Present by me this traitor to the state, Spencer, the father to that wanton Spencer, That like the lawless Catiline of Rome, Revelled in England's wealth and treasury. We thank you all. Your loving care in this, Deserveth princely favours and rewards, But where's the king and the other Spencer fled?
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)
Fly, fly, my Lord, the Queene is ouerstrong. Her friends doe multiply and yours doe fayle, Shape we our course to Ireland there to breath. What, was I borne to flye and runne away, And leaue the Mortimers conquerers behind? Giue me my horse and lets r'enforce our troupes, And in this bed of honor die with fame. O no my lord, this princely resolution Fits not the time, away, we are pursu'd. This way he fled, but I am come too late, Edward, alas my hart relents for thee, Proud traytor Mortimer why doost thou chase Thy lawfull king thy soueraigne with thy sword? Vilde wretch, and why hast thou of all vnkinde, Borne armes against thy brother and thy king? Raigne showers of vengeance on my cursed head Thou God, to whom in iustice it belongs, To punish this vnnaturall reuolt: Edward, this Mortimer aimes at thy life: O fly him then, but Edmund calme this rage, Dissemble or thou diest, for Mortimer And Isabell doe kisse while they conspire, And yet she beares a face of loue forsooth: Fie on that loue that hatcheth death and hate. Edmund away, Bristow to Longshankes blood Is false, be not found single for suspect: Proud Mortimer pries neare into thy walkes. Succesfull battells giues the God of kings, To them that fight in right and feare his wrath: Since then succesfully we haue preuayled, Thankes be heauens great architect and you, Ere farther we proceede my noble lordes, We heere create our welbeloued sonne, Of loue and care vnto his royall person, Lord warden of the realme, and sith the fates Haue made his father so infortunate, Deale you my lords in this, my louing lords, As to your wisdomes fittest seemes in all. Madam, without offence if I may aske, How will you deale with Edward in his fall? Tell me good vnckle, what Edward doe you meane? Nephew, your father, I dare not call him king. My lord of Kent, what needes these questions? Tis not in her controulment, nor in ours, But as the realme and parlement shall please, So shall your brother be disposed of, I like not this relenting moode in Edmund, Madam, tis good to looke to him betimes. My lord, the Maior of Bristow knows our mind. Yea madam, and they scape not easilie, That fled the feeld. Baldock is with the king, A goodly chauncelor, is he not my lord? So are the Spencers, the father and the sonne. This Edward is the ruine of the realme. God saue Queene Isabell, & her princely sonne, Madam, the Maior and Citizens of Bristow, In signe of loue and dutie to this presence, Present by me this traitor to the state, Spencer, the father to that wanton Spencer, That like the lawles Catiline of Rome, Reueld in Englands wealth and treasurie. We thanke you all. Your louing care in this, Deserueth princelie fauors and rewardes, But wheres the king and the other Spencer fled?