Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · 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 · 491 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
It is. Why then Al-soules day, is my body's doomsday This is the day, which in King Edward's time I wished might fall on me, when I was found False to his Children, and his Wife's Allies. This is the day, wherein I wished to fall By the false Faith of him whom most I trusted. This, this Allsoules day to my fearful Soul, Is the determined respite of my wrongs: That high All-seer, which I dallied with, Hath turned my feigned Prayer on my head, And given in earnest, what I begged in jest. Thus doth he force the swords of wicked men To turn their own points in their Master's bosoms. Thus Margaret's curse falls heavy on my neck: When he (quoth she) shall split thy heart with sorrow, Remember Margaret was a Prophetess: Come lead me Officers to the block of shame, Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due 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 Summer Fields, and fruitful Vines) Swills your warm blood like wash, & makes his trough In your embowelled bosoms: This foul Swine Is now even in the Sentry of this Isle, ne'er to the Town of Leicester, as we learn: From Tamworth thither, is but one days march. In God's name cheerly 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 men, To sight against this guilty Homicide. I doubt not but his Friends will turn to us. He hath no friends, but what are friends for fear, Which in his dearest need will fly from him. All for our vantage, then in God's name march, True Hope is swift, and flies with Swallows wings, Kings it makes Gods, and meaner creatures Kings. Here pitch our Tent, even here in Bosworth field, My Lord of Surrey, why look you so sad? My heart is ten times lighter than my looks. My Lord of Norfolk. here most gracious Liege. Norfolk, we must have knocks: Ha', must we not? We must both give and take my loving Lord. up with my Tent, here will I lie to night, But where to morrow? Well, all's one for that Who hath descried the number of the Traitors? Six or seven thousand is their utmost power. Why our Battalia trebles that account: Besides, the King's name is a Tower of strength, Which they upon the adverse Faction want. up with the Tent: Come Noble Gentlemen, Let us survey the vantage of the ground. Call for some men of found direction: Let's lack no Discipline, make no delay, For Lords, to morrow is a busy day.
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)
It is. Why then Al-ſoules day, is my bodies doomſday This is the day, which in King Edwards time I wiſh'd might fall on me, when I was found Falſe to his Children, and his Wiues Allies. This is the day, wherein I wiſht to fall By the falſe Faith of him whom moſt I truſted. This, this All-ſoules day to my fearfull Soule, Is the determin'd reſpit of my wrongs: That high All-ſeer, which I dallied with, Hath turn'd my fained Prayer on my head, And giuen in earneſt, what I begg'd in ieſt. Thus doth he force the ſwords of wicked men To turne their owne points in their Maſters boſomes. Thus Margarets curſe falles heauy on my necke: When he (quoth ſhe) ſhall ſplit thy heart with ſorrow, Remember Margaret was a Propheteſſe: Come leade me Officers to the blocke of ſhame, Wrong hath but wrong, and blame the due of blame. Fellowes in Armes, and my moſt louing Frends Bruis'd vnderneath the yoake of Tyranny, Thus farre into the bowels of the Land, Haue we marcht on without impediment; And heere receiue we from our Father Stanley Lines of faire comfort and encouragement: The wretched, bloody, and vſurping Boare, (That ſpoyl'd your Summer Fields, and fruitfull Vines) Swilles your warm blood like waſh, & makes his trough In your embowel'd boſomes: This foule Swine Is now euen in the Centry of this Iſle, Ne're to the Towne of Leiceſter, as we learne: From Tamworth thither, is but one dayes march. In Gods name cheerely on, couragious Friends, To reape the Harueſt of perpetuall peace, By this one bloody tryall of ſharpe Warre. Euery mans Conſcience is a thouſand men, To ſight againſt this guilty Homicide. I doubt not but his Friends will turne to vs. He hath no friends, but what are friends for fear, Which in his deereſt neede will flye from him. All for our vantage, then in Gods name march, True Hope is ſwift, and flyes with Swallowes wings, Kings it makes Gods, and meaner creatures Kings. Here pitch our Tent, euen here in Boſworth field, My Lord of Surrey, why looke you ſo ſad? My heart is ten times lighter then my lookes. My Lord of Norfolke. Heere moſt gracious Liege. Norfolke, we muſt haue knockes: Ha, muſt we not? We muſt both giue and take my louing Lord. Vp with my Tent, heere wil I lye to night, But where to morrow? Well, all's one for that Who hath deſcried the number of the Traitors? Six or ſeuen thouſand is their vtmoſt power. Why our Battalia trebbles that account: Beſides, the Kings name is a Tower of ſtrength, Which they vpon the aduerſe Faction want. Vp with the Tent: Come Noble Gentlemen, Let vs ſuruey the vantage of the ground. Call for ſome men of found direction: Let's lacke no Diſcipline, make no delay, For Lords, to morrow is a buſie day.