The Reign of King Edward the Third · chunk 2 of 39
Anonymous / Shakespeare, William · published 1596 · first performed or written 1590 [c.1590-1595] (Annals) history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea typicality 0.82 · 528 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
See how occasion laughs me in the face, No sooner minded to prepare for France, But straight I am invited, nay with threats, Upon a penalty enjoined to come: 'twere but a childish part to say him nay, Lorraine return this answer to thy Lord, I mean to visit him as he requests, But how? not servilely disposed to bend, But like a conqueror to make him bow, His lame unpolished shifts are come to light, And truth hath pulled the visard from his face, That set a glass upon his arrogance, Dare he command a fealty in me, Tell him the Crown that he usurps, is mine, And where he sets his foot he ought to kneel, 'tis not a petty Dukedom that I claim, But all the whole Dominions, of the Realm, Which if with grudging he refuse to yield, I'll take away those borrowed plumes of his, And send him naked to the wilderness. Then Edward here in spite of all thy Lords, I do pronounce defiance to thy face. Defiance French man we rebound it back, Even to the bottom of thy master's throat, And be it spoke with reverence of the King, My gracious father and these other Lords, I hold thy message but as scurrilous, And him that sent thee like the lazy drone, Crept up by stealth unto the eagle's nest, From whence we'll shake him with so rough a storm, As others shallbe warned by his harm, Bid him leave of the lions case he wears, lest meeting with the Lion in the field, He chance to tear him piecemeal for his pride. e soundest counsell I can giue his grace, Is to surrender ere he be constrained. A voluntary mischief hath less scorn, Then when reproach with violence is borne, Regenerate Traitor, viper to the place, Where thou was fostered in thine infancy: Bearest thou a part in this conspiracy? Lorraine behold the sharpness of this steel: Fervent desire that sits against my heart, Is far more thorny pricking than this blade. That with the nightingale I shall be scared: As oft as I dispose myself to rest, Until my colours be displayed in France: This is thy final Answer, so be gone. It is not that nor any English brave, Afflicts me so, as doth his poisoned view, That is most false, should most of all be true. Now Lord our fleeting Bark is under sail: Our gage is thrown, and war is soon began, But not so quickly brought unto an end. But wherefore comes Sir william Montague? How stands the league between the Scot and us? Cracked and dissevered my renowned Lord: The treacherous King no sooner was informed, Of your with drawing of your army back: But straight forgetting of his former oath, He made invasion on the bordering Towns: Berwick is won, Newcastle spoiled and lost, And now the tyrant hath begirt with siege, The Castle of Rocksborough, where enclosed, The Countess Salisbury is like to perish: That is thy daughter Warwick is it not? Whose husband hath in Britain served so long, About the planting of Lord Mouneford there? It is my Lord.
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)
See how occaſion laughes me in the face, No ſooner minded to prepare for France, But ſtraight I am inuited, nay with threats, Vppon a penaltie inioynd to come: Twere but a childiſh part to ſay him nay, Lorrayne returne this anſwere to thy Lord, I meane to viſit him as he requeſts, But how? not ſeruilely diſpoſd to bend, But like a conquerer to make him bowe, His lame vnpoliſht ſhiſts are come to light, And trueth hath puld the viſard from his face, That ſett a glaſſe vpon his arrogannce, Dare he commaund a fealty in mee, Tell him the Crowne that hee vſurpes, is myne, And where he ſets his foote he ought to knele, Tis not a petty Dukedome that I claime, But all the whole Dominions, of the Realme, Which if with grudging he refuſe to yeld, Ile take away thoſe borrowed plumes of his, And ſend him naked to the wildernes. Then Edward here in ſpight of all thy Lords, I doe pronounce defyaunce to thy face. Defiance French man we rebound it backe, Euen to the bottom of thy maſters throat, And be it ſpoke with reuerence of the King, My gratious father and theſe other Lordes, I hold thy meſſage but as ſcurrylous, And him that ſent thee like the lazy droane, Crept vp by ſtelth vnto the Eagles neſt, From whence wele ſhake him with ſo rough a ſtorme, As others ſhalbe warned by his harme, Byd him leaue of the Lyons caſe he weares, Leaſt meeting with the Lyon in the feeld, He chaunce to teare him peecemede for his pride. e ſoundeſt counſell I can giue his grace, Is to ſurrender ere he be conſtraynd. A voluntarie miſchiefe hath leſſe ſcorne, Then when reproch with violence is borne, Regenerate Traytor, viper to the place, Where thou was foſtred in thine infancy: Beareſt thou a part in this conſpiracy? Lorraine behold the ſharpnes of this ſteele: Feruent deſire that ſits againſt my heart, Is farre more thornie pricking than this blade. That with the nightingale I ſhall be ard: As oft as I diſpoſe my ſelfe to reſt, Vntill my collours be diſplaide in Fraunce: This is thy finall Anſwere, ſo be gone. It is not that nor any Engliſh braue, Afflicts me ſo, as doth his poyſoned view, That is moſt falſe, ſhould moſt of all be true. Now Lord our fleeting Barke is vnder ſayle: Our gage is throwne, and warre is ſoone began, But not ſo quickely brought vnto an end. But wherefore comes Sir william Mountague? How ſtands the league betweene the Scot and vs? Crackt and diſſeuered my renowned Lord: The treacherous King no ſooner was informde, Of your with drawing of your army backe: But ſtraight forgetting of his former othe, He made inuaſion on the bordering Townes: Barwicke is woon, Newcaſtle ſpoyld and loſt, And now the tyrant hath beguirt with ſeege, The Caſtle of Rocksborough, where incloſd, The Countes Salsbury is like to periſh: That is thy daughter Warwicke is it not? Whoſe husband hath in Brittayne ſerud ſo long, About the planting of Lord Mouneford there? It is my Lord.