Shakespeare, William · published 1597 · first performed or written 1595 (Annals) tragedy; history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho · 510 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
Here standeth Thomas Mowbray D▪ of Norfolk On pain to be found false and recreant, Both to defend himself, and to approve Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby, To God, his sovereign, and to him disloyal, Courageously, and with a free desire, Attending but the signal to begin. Sound trumpet's, and set forward Combatants: Stay, the king hath thrown his warder down. Let them lay by their helmets, and their spears, And both return back to their chairs again, Withdraw with us, and let the trumpets sound, While we return these dukes what we decree. Draw near and list What with our counsel we have done: For that our kingdoms earth should not be soiled With that dear blood which it hath fostered: And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect Of civil wounds ploughed up with neighbour's sword, And for we think the Egle-winged pride Of skie-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, With rivall-hating envy set on you To wake our peace, which in our Country's cradle Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep Which so roused up with boisterous untuned drums, With harsh resounding trumpets dreadful bray, And grating shock of wrathfully on arms, Might from our quiet confines frighten fair Peace, And make us wade even in our kindreds blood; Therefore we banish you our territories: You cousin Hereford upon pain of life, Till twice five summers have enriched our fields, Shall not regreet our fair dominions▪ But tread the stranger paths of banishment. Your will be done; this must my comfort be, That Sun that warms you here, shall shine on me. And those his golden beams to you here lent, Shall point on me, and guild my banishment. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom, Which I with some unwillingness pronounce, The sly slow hours shall not determinate The dateless limit of thy dear exile, The hopeless word of never to return, breath I against thee, upon pain of life. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign Liege, And all unlooked for from your highness mouth, A dearer merit not so deep a maim, As to be cast forth in the common air Have I deserved at your highness hands: The language I have learned these forty years, My native English now I must forego, And now my tongues use is to me, no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp, Or like a cunning instrument cased up, Or being open, put into his hands That knows no touch to tune the harmony: Within my mouth you have engaoled my tongue, Doubly portcullist with my teeth and lips, And dull unfeeling barren ignorance Is made my Jailer to attend on me: I am too old to fawn upon a nurse, Too far in years to be a pupil now, What is thy sentence but speechless death? Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath, It boots thee not to be compassionate, After our sentence plaining comes too late. Then thus I turn me from my country's light, To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.
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)
Here standeth Thomas Mowbray D▪ of Norfolk On paine to be found false and recreant, Both to defend himselfe, and to approue Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Darby, To God, his soueraigne, and to him disloyall, Couragiously, and with a free desire, Attending but the ignall to beginne. Sound trumpets, and set forward Combatants: Stay, the king hath throwen his warder downe. Let them lay by their helmets, and their speares, And both returne backe to their chaires againe, Withdraw with vs, and let the trumpets sound, While we returne these dukes what we decree. Draw neere and list What with our counsell we haue done: For that our kingdomes earth shoud not be soild With that deare bloud which it hath ostered: And for our eies do hate the aspect Of ciuill wounds plowd vp with neighbours sword, And for we thinke the Egle-winged pride Of skie-aspiring and ambitious thoughts, With riuall-hating set on you To wake our peace, which in our Countries rade Drawes the sweet infant reath of gentle sleepe Which so rozde vp with boistrous vntunde drummes, With harsh resounding trumpets dreadfull bray, And grating shocke of wrathfully on armes, Might from our quet confines fight faire Peace, And make vs wade euen in our kinreds bloud; Therefore we banish you our territories: You cousin Hereford vpon paine of life, Til twice fiue summers haue enricht our fields, Shall not regreete our faire dominions▪ But treade the stranger paths of banishment. Your will be done; this must my comfort be, That Sunne that warmes you here, shall shine on me. And those his golden beames to you heere lent, Shall point on me, and guilde my banishment. Norfolke, for thee remaines a heauier doome, Which I with some vnwillingnesse pronounce, The she slow houres shall not determinate The datelesse limite of thy deere exile, The hoplesse word of neuer to returne, Breathe I against thee, vpon paine of life. A beauy sentence, my most soueraigne Liege, And all vnlookt for from your Highnesse mouth, A deerer merit not so deepe a maime, As to be cast foth in the common ayre Haue I deserued at your Highnesse hands: The language I haue learnt these forty yeeres, My natiue English now I must forgo, And now my tongues vse is to me, no more Than an vnstringed violl or a harpe, Or like a cunning instrument casde vp, Or being open, put into his hands That knowes no touch to tue the harmonie: ithin my mouth you haue engaoid my tongue, Doubly portcullist with my teeth and lippes, And dull vnfeeling barren ignorance Is made my Galer to attend on me: I am too olde to fawne vpon a nuse, Too far in yeeres to be a pupill now, What is thy sentence but speechlesse death? Which robbes my tongue from beathing natiue breath, It bootes thee not to be compassionate, After our sentence playning comes too late. Then thus I turne me from my cuntries light, To dwel in solemne shades of endlesse night.