Shakespeare, William · published 1597 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1592] (Annals) tragedy; history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) unassigned nearest T50 Fleets, armies and generals: war by sea · 488 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
It is my Lord. Why then Alsoules day, is my body's doomsday: This is the day, that in king Edward's time, I wished might fall on me, when I was found, False to his children, or his wives allies: This is the day, wherein I wished to fall, By the false faith, of him I trusted most: This, this Alsoules day, to my fearful soul, Is the determined respite of my wrongs: That high al-seer, that I dallied with, Hath turned my feigned prayer on my head, And given in earnest what ● begged in jest. Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men, To turn their own points, on their masters bosom: Now Margaret's curse, is fallen upon my head, When he quorh she, shall split thy heart with sorrow. Remember, Margaret was a Prophetess, Come sirs, convey me to the block of shame, Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the dew of blame. Fellows in arms, and my most loving friends, Bruised underneath the yoke of tyranny, Thus far into the bowels of the land, Have we marched on without impediment. And here receive we, from our Father Stanley, Lines of fair comfort, and encouragement, The wretched, bloody, and usurping boar, That spoiled your somerfieldes, and fruitful vines, Swills your warm blood like wash, and makes his trough, In your inboweld bosoms, this foul swine, Lies now even in the centre of this isle, Near to the town of Leycester as we learn: From Tamworth thither, is but one days march, In God's name cheerelie on, courageous friends, To reap the harvest of perpetual peace, By this one bloody trial of sharp war. Every man's conscience is a thousand swords, To fight against that bloody homicide. I doubt not but his friends will fly to us. He hath no friends, but who are friends for fear, Which in his greatest need will shrink from him. All for our vantage, then in God's name march, True hope is swift, and flies with Swallows wings, Kings it make Gods, and meaner creatures kings. Here pitch our tents, even here in Bosworth field, Why, how now Catesby, why look'st thou so bad. My heart is ten times lighter than my looks. Norfolk, come hither. Norfolk, we must have knocks, ha, must we not? We must both give, and take, my gracious Lord. Up with my tent there, here will I lie to night, But where to morrow, well, all is one for that: Who hath descried the number of the foe. Six or seven thousand is their greatest number. Why our battalion trebles that account, Besides, the King's name is a tower of strength, Which they upon the adverse party want, Up with my tent there, valiant gentlemen, Let us survey the vantage of the field, Call for some men of sound direction, Let's want no discipline, make no delay, For Lords, to morrow is a busy day.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T13 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
It is my Lord. Whie then Alsoules day, is my bodies domesday: This is the day, that in king Edwards time, I wisht might fall on me, when I was found, False to his children, or his wiues allies: This is the day, wherein I wisht to fall, By the false faith, of him I trusted most: This, this Alsoules day, to my fearefull soule, Is the determind respit of my wrongs: That high al-seer, that I dallied with, Hath turnd my fained prayer on my head, And giuen in earnest what begd in iest. Thus doeth he force the swordes of wicked men, To turne their owne pointes, on their Maisters bosome: Now Margarets curse, is fallen vpon my head, When he quorh she, shall splt thy hart with sorrow. Remember, Margaret was a Prophetesse, Come sirs, conuey me to the blocke of shame, Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the dew of blame. Fellowes in armes, and my most louing friendes, Bruisd vnderneath the yoake of tyrannie, Thus farre into the bowels of the land, Haue we marcht on without impediment. And here receiue we, from our Father Stanlie, Lines of faire comfort, and incouragement, The wretched, bloudie, and vsurping bore, That spoild your somer-fieldes, and fruitfull vines, Swils your warme bloud like wash, and makes his trough, In your inboweld bosomes, this foule swine, Lies now euen in the center of this Ile, Neare to the towne of Leycester as we learne: From Tamworth thether, is but one dayes march, In Gods name cheerelie on, couragious fiendes, To reape the haruest of perpetuall peace, By this one bloudie triall of sharpe warre. Eueie mans conscience is a thousand swordes, To fight against that bloudie homicide. I doubt not but his friendes will flie to vs. He hath no friendes, but who are friendes for feare, Which in his greatest neede will shrinke from him. All for our vantage, then in Gods name march, True hope is swift, and flies with Swallowes wings, Kings it make Gods, and meaner creatures kings. Here pitch our tentes, euen here in Bosworth field, Whie, how now Catesbie, whie lookst thou so bad. My hart is ten times lighter then my lookes. Norffolke, come hether. Norffolke, we must haue knockes, ha, must we not? We must both giue, and take, my gracious Lord. Vp with my tent there, here will I lie to night, But where to morrow, well, all is one for that: Who hath discried the number of the foe. Sixe or seuen thousand is their greatest number. Whie our battalion trebles that account, Besides, the Kings name is a tower of strength, Which they vpon the aduerse partie want, Vp with my tent there, valiant gentlemen, Let vs suruey the vantage of the field, Call for some men of sound direction, Lets want no discipline, make no delae, For Lordes, to morrow is a busie day.