Marlowe, Christopher · published 1596 · first performed or written 1593 [Jan 26; Jan 30] (Annals) tragedy · Derby's (Strange's) Men unassigned nearest T59 Spanish courts: war, honour and courtshi · 476 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T59: andrea, spain, portugal, tribute, horatio, king, bellimperia, prince, lord, lorenzo.
Pleaseth your grace to let the Surgeon search your wound. The wound I warrant ye is deep my Lord, Search Surgeon and resolve me what thou seest. Agent for England, send thy mistress word, What this detested Iacobin hath done. Tell her for all this that I hope to live, Which if I do, the Papal monarch goes to wrack. And antichristian kingdom falls. These bloody hands shall tear his triple Crown, And fire accursed Rome about his ears. He fire his I'll buildings and incense, The papal towers to kiss the holy earth. Navarre, give me thy hand, I here do swear, To ruinate that wicked Church of Rome, That hatcheth up such bloody practises. And here protest eternal love to thee, And to the Queen of England specially, Whom God hath blessed for hating papistry. These words revive my thoughts and comforts me, To see your highness in this virtuous mind. Tell me Surgeon, shall I live? Alas my Lord, the wound is dangerous, for you are stricken with a poisoned knife. A poisoned knife, what shall the French king die, Wounded and poisoned, both at once? O that that damned villain were alive again, That we might torture him with some new found death. He died a death too good, the devil of hell torture his wicked soul. Ah curse him not sith he is dead, O the fatal poison works within my breast, tell me Surgeon and flatter not, may I live? Alas my Lord, your highness cannot live. Surgeon, why sayst thou so? the King may live. Oh no Navarre, thou must be King of France. Long may you live, and still be King of France. Or else die Epernoune. Sweet Epernoune thy King must die. My Lords, fight in the quarrel of this valiant Prince, For he is your lawful King and my next heir: Valois' line ends in my tragedy. Now let the house of Bourbon wear the crown, And may it never end in blood as mine hath done. Weep not sweet Navarre, but revenge my death. Ah Epernoune, is this thy love to me? Henry thy King wipes of these childish tears, And bids thee whet thy sword on Sextus bones, That it may keenly slice the Catholics. He loves me not that sheds most tears, But he that makes most lavish of his blood. Fire Paris where these treacherous rebels lurk, I die Navarre, come bear me to my Sepulchre. Salute the Queen of England in my name, And tell her Henry dies her faithful friend. Come Lords, take up the body of the King. That we may see it honourably interred: And then I vow for to revenge his death, As Rome and all those popish Prelates there, Shall curse the time that ere Navarre was King. And ruled in France by Henry's fatal death.
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)
Pleaseth your grace to let the Surgeon search your wound. The wound I warrant ye is deepe my Lord, Search Surgeon and resolue me what thou seest. Agent for England, send thy mistres word, What this detested Iacobin hath done. Tell her for all this that I hope to liue, Which if I doe, the Papall Monarck goes to wrack. And antechristian kingdome falles. These bloudy hands shall teare his triple Crowne, And fire accursed Rome about his eares. He fire his crased buildings and incense, The papall to wers to kisse the holy earth. Nauarre, giue me thy hand, I heere do sweare, To ruinate that wicked Church of Rome, That hatcheth vp such bloudy practises. And heere protest eternall loue to thee, And to the Queene of England specially, Whom God hath blest for hating Papestry. These words reuiue my thoughts and comforts me, To see your highnes in this vertuous minde. Tell me Surgeon, shall I liue? Alas my Lord, the wound is dangerous, for you are stricken with a poysoned knife. A poysoned knife, what shall the French king dy e, Wounded and poysoned, both at once? O that that damned villaine were aliue againe, That we might torture him with some new found death. He died a death too good, the deuill of hell torture his wicked soule. Ah curse him not sith he is dead, O the fatall poyson workes within my brest, tell me Surgeon and flatter not, may I liue? Alas my Lord, your highnes cannot liue. Surgeon, why saist thou so? the King may liue. Oh no Nauarre, thou must be King of France. Long may you liue, and still be King of France. Or else dye Epernoune. Sweet Epernoune thy King must dye. My Lords, fight in the quarrell of this valiant Prince, For he is your lawfull King and my next heire: Valoyses lyne ends in my tragedie. Now let the house of Bourbon weare the crowne, And may it neuer end in bloud as mine hath done. Weep not sweet Nauarre, but reuenge my death. Ah Epernoune, is this thy loue to me? Henry thy King wipes of these childish teares, And bids thee whet thy sword on Sextus bones, That it may keenly slice the Catholicks. He loues me not that sheds most teares, But he that makes most lauish of his bloud. Fire Paris where these trecherous rebels lurke, Idye Nauarre, come beare me to my Sepulchre. Salute the Queene of England in my name, And tell her Henry dyes her faithfull freend. Come Lords, take vp the body of the King. That we may see it honourably interde: And then I vow for to reuenge his death, As Rome and all those popish Prelates there, Shall curse the time that ere Nauarre was King. And rulde in France by Henries fatall death.