Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · 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 · 465 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
As full of Valour, as of Royal blood, Both have I spilt: 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 hear, 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 Salisbury, Spencer, 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 Bennet Seely, Two of the dangerous consorted Traitors, That sought at Oxford, thy dire overthrow. Thy pains Fitzwaters shall not 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 reverend 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 greatest enemies Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought. Exton, I thank thee not, for thou hast wrought A deed of Slaughter, with thy fatal hand, Upon my head, and all this famous Land. From your own mouth my Lord, 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 the shade 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 that I do lament, And put on sullen 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 mourning 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)
As full of Valor, as of Royall blood, Both haue I ſpilt: Oh would the deed were good. For now the diuell, that told me I did well, Sayes, that this deede is chronicled in hell. This dead King to the liuing King Ile beare, Take hence the reſt, and giue them buriall heere. Kinde Vnkle Yorke, the lateſt newes we heare, Is that the Rebels haue conſum'd with fire Our Towne of Ciceter in Glouceſterſhire, But whether they be tane or 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 haue to London ſent The heads of Salsbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent: The manner of their taking may appeare At large diſcourſed in this paper heere. We thank thee gentle Percy for thy paines, And to thy worth will adde right worthy gaines. My Lord, I haue from Oxford ſent to London, The heads of Broccas, and Sir Bennet Seely, Two of the dangerous conſorted Traitors, That ſought at Oxford, thy dire ouerthrow. Thy paines Fitzwaters ſhall not be forgot, Right Noble is thy merit, well I wot. The grand Conſpirator, Abbot of Weſtminſter, With clog of Conſcience, and ſowre Melancholly, Hath yeelded vp his body to the graue: But heere is Carlile, liuing to abide Thy Kingly doome, and ſentence of his pride. Carlile, this is your doome: Chooſe out ſome ſecret place, ſome reuerend roome More then thou haſt, and with it ioy thy life: So as thou liu'ſt in peace, dye free from ſtrife: For though mine enemy▪ thou haſt euer beene, High ſparkes of Honor in thee haue I ſeene. Great King, within this Coffin I preſent Thy buried feare. Heerein all breathleſſe lies The mightieſt of thy greateſt enemies Richard of Burdeaux, by me hither brought. Exton, I thanke thee not, for thou haſt wrought A deede of Slaughter, with thy fatall hand, Vpon my head, and all this famous Land. From your owne mouth my Lord, did I this deed. They loue not poyſon, that do poyſon 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 labour, But neither my good word, nor Princely fauour. With Caine go wander through the ſhade of night, And neuer ſhew thy head by day, nor light. Lords, I proteſt my ſoule is full of woe, That blood ſhould ſprinkle me, to make me grow. Come mourne with me, for that I do lament, And put on ſullen Blacke incontinent: Ile make a voyage to the Holy-land, To waſh this blood off from my guilty hand. March ſadly after, grace my mourning heere, In weeping after this vntimely Beere.