Shakespeare, William · published 1597 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1592] (Annals) tragedy; history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) unassigned nearest T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho · 521 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.
Then he disdains to shine, for by the book, He should have braved the East an hour ago, A black day will it be to some body Rat. My Lord. The Sun will nor be seen to day, The sky doth frown, and lower upon our army, I would these dewy tears were from the ground, Not shine to day: why, what is that to me? More than to Richmond, for the self-same heaven, That frowns on me, looks sadly upon him. Arm, arm, my Lord, the foe vaunts in the field. Come, bustle, bustle, caparison my horse, Call up Lord Standlie, bid him bring his power, I will lead forth, my soldiers to the plain, And thus my battle shall be ordered. My forward shall be drawn out all in length, Consisting equally of horse and foot, Our Archers shall be placed in the midst, Iohn, Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Earl of Surrey, Shall have the leading of this foot and horse, They thus directed, we will follow, In the matne battle, whose puissance on either side, shall be well winged with our chiefest horse: This, and Saint George to boots what thinkest thou Norfolk? A good direction warlike sovereign, This found I on my tent this morning. jockey of Norfolk be not so bold, For D●ckon thy master is bought and should. A thing devised by the enemy. Go gentlemen every man unto his charge, Let not our babbling dreams affright our souls: Conscience is but a word that cowards use, Devisd at first to keep the strong in awe, Our strong arms be our conscience swords, our law. March on, join bravely, let us to it pell-mell, If not to heaven then hand in hand to hell. What shall I say more than I have inferred? Remember whom you are to cope withal, A sort of vagabonds, rascals and runaways, A scum of Britain's and base lackey peasants, Whom their orecloied country vomits forth, To desperate adventures and assured destruction, You sleeping safe they bring to you unrest, You having lands and blessed with beauteous wives, They would restrain the one, distain the other, And who doth lead them but a paltrey fellow,? Long kept in Britain at our mother's cost, A milkesopt, one that never in his life Felt so much cold as over shoes in snow: Let's whip these stragglers o'er the seas again, Lash hence these overweening rags of France, These famished beggars weary of their lives, Who but for dreaming on this fond exploit, For want of means poor rats had hanged themselves, If we be conquered, let men conquer us, And not these bastard Britain's whom our fathers Have in their own land beaten bobbed and thumped, And in record left them the heirs of shame. Shall these enjoy our lands, lie with our wives? Ravish our daughters, hark I hear their drum, Fight gentlemen of England, fight bold yeomen, Draw archers draw your arrows to the head▪ Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in blood, Amaze the welkin with your broken staves, What says lord Stanley, will he bring his power?
seed 43: T18 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Then he disdaines to shine, for by the booke, He should haue braud the East an hower agoe, A blacke day will it be to some bodie Rat. My Lord. The Sunne will nor be seene to day, The skie doeth frowne, and lowre vpon our armie, I would these dewie teares were from the ground, Not shine to day: whie, what is that to me? More then to Richmond, for the selfe-same heauen, That frownes on me, lookes sadlie vpon him. Arme, arme, my Lord, the foe vaunts in the field. Come, buste, bustle, caparison my horse, Call vp Lord Standlie, bid him bring his power, I will leade forth, my souldiers to the plaine, And thus my battaile shall be ordered. My foreward shall be drawen out all in length, Consisting equallie of horse and foote, Our Archers shall be placed in the midst, Iohn, Duke of Norffolke, Thomas Earle of Surrey, Shall haue the leading of this foote and horse, They thus directed, we will follow, In the matne battle, whose puissance on either side, shall be well winged with our chiefest horse: This, and Saint George to bootes what thinkst thou Norffolke? A good direction warlike soueraigne, This found I on my tent this morning. Iocky of Norfolke be not so bould, For Dckon thy master is bought and should. A thing deuised by the enemie. Go gentlemen euery man vnto his charge, Let not our babling dreames affright our soules: Conscience is but a word that cowards vse, Deuisd at first to keepe the strong in awe, Our strong armes be our conscience swords, our law. March on, ioine brauelie, let vs to it pell mell, If not to heauen then hand in hand to hell. What shal I saie more then I haue inferd? Remember whom you are to cope withall, A sort of vagabonds, rascols and runawaies, A scum of Brittains and base lacky pesants, Whom their orecloied country vomits forth, To desperate aduentures and assurd destruction, You sleeping safe they bring to you vnrest, You hauing lands and blest with beauteous wifes, They would restraine the one, distaine the other, And who doth lead them but a paltrey fellow,? Long kept in Brittaine at our mothers cost, A milkesopt, one that neuer in his life Felt so much colde as ouer shooes in snow: Lets whip these stragglers ore the seas againe, Lash hence these ouerweening rags of France, These famisht beggers wearie of their liues, Who but for dreaming on this fond exploit, For want of means poore rats had hangd themselues, If we be conquered, let men conquer vs, And not these bastard Brittains whom our fathers Haue in their own land beaten bobd and thumpt, And in record left them the heires of shame. Shall these enjoy our lands, lie with our wiues? Rauish our daughters, harke I heare their drum, Fight gentlemen of England, fight bold yeomen, Draw archers draw your arrowes to the head▪ Spur your proud horses hard, and ride in bloud, Amaze the welkin with your broken staues, What saies lord Stanley, wil he bring his power?