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 0.82 · 504 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.
Of much less value is my Company, Then your good words: but who comes here? It is my Son, young Harry Percy, Sent from my Brother Worcester: Whence soever. Harry, how fares your Uncle? I had thought, my Lord, to have learned his health of you. Why, is he not with the Queen? No, my good Lord, he hath forsaken the Court, Broken his Staff of Office, and dispersed The Household of the King. What was his reason? He was not so resolved, when we last spoke together. Because your Lordship was proclaimed Traitor. But he, my Lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh, To offer service to the Duke of Hereford, And sent me over by Barkely, to discover What power the Duke of York had levied there, Then with direction to repair to Ravenspurgh. Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford (Boy.) No, my good Lord; for that is not forgot Which ne'er I did remember: to my knowledge, I never in my life did look on him. Then learn to know him now: this is the Duke. My gracious Lord, I tender you my service, Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young, Which elder days shall ripen and confirm To more approved service, and desert. I thank thee gentle Percy, and be sure I count myself in nothing else so happy. As in a Soul remembering my good Friends: And as my Fortune ripens with thy Love, It shall be still thy true Love's recompense, My Heart this Covenant makes, my Hand thus seals it. How far is it to Barkely? and what stir Keeps good old York there, with his Men of War? There stands the Castle, by yond tuft of Trees, Manned with three hundred men, as I have heard, And in it are the Lords of York, Barkely, and Seymor, None else of Name, and noble estimate. Here come the Lords of Rosse and Willoughby, Bloody with spurring, fiery red with haste. Welcome my Lords, I wots your love pursues A banisht Pray my Treasurie that vasel , which more enrichd, Shall be your love, and lab was recompense. Your presence makes us rich, most Noble Lord. And sure surmounts our labour to attain it. Evermore thankes, th' Exchequer of the poor, Which till my infant-fortune comes to years, Stands for my Bounty: but who comes here? It is my Lord of Barkely, as I guess. My Lord of Hereford, my Message is to you. My Lord, my Answer is to Lancaster, And I am come to seek that Name in England, And I must find that Title in your Tongue, Before I make reply to aught you say. Mistake me not, my Lord, 'tis not my meaning To raze one Title of your Honour out. To you, my Lord, I come (what Lord you will) From the most glorious of this Land, The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on To take advantage of the absent time, And fright our Native Peace with selfeborne Arms.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1085–1147 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 18 of 43 in this edition
Length
504 words · 669 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T42 — English historical figures: a mixed clustercontext only — excluded from the genre comparison · typicality 0.824 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T43 · seed 44: T43 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Of much leſſe value is my Companie, Then your good words: but who comes here? It is my Sonne, young Harry Percie, Sent from my Brother Worceſter: Whence ſoeuer. Harry, how fares your Vnckle? I had thought, my Lord, to haue learn'd his health of you. Why, is he not with the Queene? No, my good Lord, he hath forſook the Court, Broken his Staffe of Office, and diſperſt The Houſehold of the King. What was his reaſon? He was not ſo reſolu'd, when we laſt ſpake together. Becauſe your Lordſhip was proclaimed Traitor. But hee, my Lord, is gone to Rauenſpurgh, To offer ſeruice to the Duke of Hereford, And ſent me ouer by Barkely, to diſcouer What power the Duke of Yorke had leuied there, Then with direction to repaire to Rauenſpurgh. Haue you forgot the Duke of Hereford (Boy.) No, my good Lord; for that is not forgot Which ne're I did remember: to my knowledge, I neuer in my life did looke on him. Then learne to know him now: this is the Duke. My gracious Lord, I tender you my ſeruice, Such as it is, being render▪ raw, and young, Which elder dayes ſhall ripen and confirme To more approued ſeruice, and deſert. I thanke thee gentle Percie, and be ſure I count my ſelfe in nothing elſe ſo happy. As in a Soule remembring my good Friends: And as my Fortune ripens with thy Loue, It ſhall be ſtill thy true Loues recompence, My Heart this Couenant makes, my Hand thus ſeales it. How farre is it to Barkely? and what ſtirre Keepes good old Yorke there, with his Men of Warre? There ſtands the Caſtle, by yond tuft of Trees, Mann'd with three hundred men, as I haue heard, And in it are the Lords of Yorke, Barkely, and Seymor, None elſe of Name, and noble eſtimate. Here con n the Lords of Roſſe and Willoughby, Bloody with ſpurring, ſi red with haſle. Welcome my Lords, I wot your loue purſues A baniſht Pray my Treaſurie that vaſel , which more enrichd, Shall be your loue, and lab was recompence. Your preſence makes vs rich, moſt Noble Lord. And ſure ſurmounts our labour to attaine it. Euermore thankes, th' Exchequer of the poore, Which till my infant-fortune comes to yeeres, Stands for my Bountie: but who comes here? It is my Lord of Barkely, as I gheſſe. My Lord of Hereford, my Meſſage is to you. My Lord, my Anſwere is to Lancaſter, And I am come to ſeeke that Name in England, And I muſt finde that Title in your Tongue, Before I make reply to aught you ſay. Miſtake me not, my Lord, 'tis not my meaning To raze one Title of your Honor out. To you, my Lord, I come (what Lord you will) From the moſt glorious of this Land, The Duke of Yorke, to know what pricks you on To take aduantage of the abſent time, And fright our Natiue Peace with ſelfe-borne Armes.