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 · 511 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
That hand shall burn in never quenching fire. That staggers thus my person: Exton, thy fierce hand Hath with the king's blood stained the kings own land. Mount mount my soul, thy seat is up on high, Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward here to die, As full of valour as of royal blood: Both have I spilld, Oh would the deed were good For now the devil that told me I did well, Says that this deed is chronicled in hell: This dead king to the living king I'll bear. Take hence the rest, and give them burial here. Kind uncle York, the latest news we heard, Is▪ that the rebels have consumed with fire Our town of Cicester in Gloucestershire, But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not. Welcome my Lord, what is the news? First to thy sacred state wish I all happiness, The next news is, I have to London sent The heads of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt and Kent, The manner of their taking may appear At large discoursed in this paper here. We thank thee gentle Percy for thy pains, And to thy worth will add right worthy gains. My Lord, I have from Oxford sent to London▪ The heads of Broccas, and sir Benet Seely, Two of the dangerous consorted traitors, That fought at Oxford thy dire overthrow. Thy pains Fitz. shall nor be forgot, Right noble is thy merit well I wots. The grand conspirator Abbot of Westminster With clog of conscience and sour melancholy Hath yielded up his body to the grave. But here is Carlisle living, to abide Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride. Carlisle, this is your doom; Choose out some secret place, some reverent room More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life: So as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife, For though mine enemy thou hast ever been, High sparks of honour in thee have I seen. Great King, within this coffin I present Thy buried fear: herein all breathless lies The mightiest of thy greacest enemies, Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought. Exton, I thank thee not, for thou hast wrought A deed of slander with thy fatal hand, Upon my head and all this famous Land. From your own mouth my Lo. did I this deed. They love not poison that do poison need, Nor do I thee; though I did wish him dead, I hate the murderer, love him murdered: The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour, But neither my good word, nor Princely favour; With Cain go wander through shades of night, And never show thy head by day nor light. Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe, That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow: Come mourn with me, for what I do lament, And put on sulleyn black incontinent, I'll make a voyage to the holy land, To wash this blood off from my guilty hand: March sadly after, grace my mournings here, In weeping after this untimely Beer.
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)
That hand shall burne in neuer quenching fire. That staggers thus my person: Exton, thy fierce hand Hath with the kings bloud staind the kings owne land. Mount mount my soule, thy seate is vp on high, Whilst my grosse flesh sinckes downeward here to die, As full of valure as of royall bloud: Both haue I spilld, Oh would the deede were good For now the diuell that told me I did well, Saies that this deede is chroniled in hell: This dead king to the liuing king Ile beare. Take hence the rest, and giue them buriall . Kind vncle Yorke, the latest newes we hear, Is▪ that the rebels haue consumed with fire Our towne of Ciceter in Gloucestershire, But whether they be tane o slaine we heare not. Welcome my Lord, what is the newes? First to thy sacred state wish I all happinesse, The next newes is, I hue to London sent The heades of Oxford, Salisbury, Blunt and Kent, The maner of their taking may appeare At large discoursed in this paper heere. We thanke thee gentle Pcie for thy paines, And to thy woorth will adde right worthy gaines. My Lord, I haue from Oxford sent to London▪ The heads of Broccas, and sir Benet Seely, Two of the daungerous consorted traiors, That fought at Oxford thy dire ouerthrow. Thy paines Fitz. shall nor be forgot, Right noble is thy merit well I wot. The grand conspirator Abbot of Westminster With clog of conscience and sowre melancholy Hath yeelded vp his body to the graue. But here is Carleil liuing, to abide Thy kingly doome, and sentence of his pride. Carleil, this is your doome; Choose out some secret place, some reuerent roome More than thou bast, and with it ioy thy life: So as thou liu'st in peace, die free from strife, For though mine enemy thou hast euer beene, High sparkes of honour in thee haue I seene. Great King, within this coffin I prsent Thy buried feare: herein all breathlesse lies The mightiest of thy greacest enemies, Richard of Burdeaux, by me hither brought. Exton, I thanke thee not, for thou hast wrought A deed of slaunder with thy fatall hand, Vpon my head and all this famous Land. From your owne mouth my Lo. did I this deed. They loue not poison that do poison neede, Nor do I thee; though I did wish him dead, I hate the murtherer, loue him murthered: The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labor, But neither my good word, nor Princely fauour; With Cayne go wander through shades of night, And neuer shew thy head by day nor light. Lordes, I protest my soule is full of wo, That bloud should sprincle me to make me grow: Come mourne with me, for what I do lament, And put on sulleyn blacke incontinent, Ile make a voiage to the holly lande, To wash this bloud off from my guiltie hand: March sadly after, grace my mournings heere, In weeping after this vntimely Beere.