Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1595 (Annals) tragedy; history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T42 English historical figures: a mixed clus typicality 0.69 · 511 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T42: harry, percy, lord, king, god, falstalffe, frances, mowbray, life, mortimer.
Strong as a tower in hope, I cry Amen. Go bear this Lance to Thomas D. of Norfolk. Harry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derbie, Stands here for God, his Sovereign, and himself, On pain to be found false, and recreant, To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray, A Traitor to his God, his King, and him, And dares him to set forwards to the fight. Here standeth Tho: Mowbray Duke of Norfolk On pain to be found false and recreant, Both to defend himself, and to approve Henry of Herford, 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 & 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 Council we have done. For that our kingdom's 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 plowghed up with neighbour's swords, Which so roused up with boisterous untuned drums, With harsh resounding Trumpets dreadful bray, And grating shock of wrathful iron Arms, Might from our quiet Confines fright fair peace, And make us wade even in our kindred's blood: Therefore, we banish you our Territories. You Cousin Herford, upon pain of death, Till twice five Summers have enriched our fields, Shall not regret 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 gild my banishment. Norfolk: for thee remains a heavier dumb, 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 forgo, And now my tongues use is to me no more, Then an unstringed Vial, 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 portcullised with my teeth and lips, And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance, Is made my Gaoler 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 then, but speechless death, Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 383–449 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 7 of 43 in this edition
Length
511 words · 695 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T42 — English historical figures: a mixed clustercontext only — excluded from the genre comparison · typicality 0.690 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
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)
Strong as a towre in hope, I cry Amen. Go beare this Lance to Thomas D. of Norfolke. Harry of Herford, Lancaſter, and Derbie, Stands heere for God, his Soueraigne, and himſelfe, On paine to be found falſe, and recreant, To proue the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray, A Traitor to his God, his King, and him, And dares him to ſet forwards to the fight. Here ſtandeth Tho: Mowbray Duke of Norfolk On paine to be found falſe and recreant, Both to defend himſelfe, and to approue Henry of Herford, Lancaſter, and Derby, To God, his Soueraigne, and to him diſloyall: Couragiouſly, and with a free deſire Attending but the ſignall to begin. Sound Trumpets, and ſet forward Combatants: Stay, the King hath throwne his Warder downe. Let them lay by their Helmets & 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 Councell we haue done. For that our kingdomes earth ſhould not be ſoyld With that deere blood which it hath foſtered, And for our eyes do hate the dire aſpect Of ciuill wounds plowgh'd vp with neighbors ſwords, Which ſo rouz'd vp with boyſtrous vntun'd drummes, With harſh reſounding Trumpets dreadfull bray, And grating ſhocke of wrathfull yron Armes, Might from our quiet Confines fright faire peace, And make vs wade euen in our kindreds blood: Therefore, we baniſh you our Territories. You Coſin Herford, vpon paine of death, Till twice fiue Summers haue enrich'd our fields, Shall not regreet our faire dominions, But treade the ſtranger pathes of baniſhment. Your will be done: This muſt my comfort be, That Sun that warmes you heere, ſhall ſhine on me: And thoſe his golden beames to you heere lent, Shall point on me, and gild my baniſhment. Norfolke: for thee remaines a heauier dombe, Which I with ſome vnwillingneſſe pronounce, The ſlye ſlow houres ſhall not determinate The dateleſſe limit of thy deere exile: The hopeleſſe word, of Neuer to returne, Breath I againſt thee, vpon paine of life. A heauy ſentence, my moſt Soueraigne Liege, And all vnlook'd for from your Highneſſe mouth: A deerer merit, not ſo deepe a maime, As to be caſt forth in the common ayre Haue I deſerued at your Highneſſe hands. The Language I haue learn'd theſe forty yeares (My natiue Engliſh) now I muſt forgo, And now my tongues vſe is to me no more, Then an vnſtringed Vyall, or a Harpe, Or like a cunning Inſtrument cas'd vp, Or being open, put into his hands That knowes no touch to tune the harmony. Within my mouth you haue engaol'd my tongue, Doubly perculliſt with my teeth and lippes, And dull, vnfeeling, barren ignorance, Is made my Gaoler to attend on me: I am too old to fawne vpon a Nurſe, Too farre in yeeres to be a pupill now: What is thy ſentence then, but ſpeechleſſe death, Which robs my tongue from breathing natiue breath?