Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1592 [1591-1592] (Annals) tragedy; history · Derby's (Strange's) Men (?) unassigned nearest T42 English historical figures: a mixed clus · 509 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T42: harry, percy, lord, king, god, falstalffe, frances, mowbray, life, mortimer.
I by Attorney, bless thee from thy Mother, Who prays continually for Richmond's good: So much for that. The silent hours steal on, And flaky darkness breaks within the East. In brief, for so the season bids us be, Prepare thy Battle early in the Morning, And put thy Fortune to th' Arbitrement Of bloody strokes, and mortal staring War: I, as I may, that which I would I cannot, With best advantage will deceive the time, And aid thee in this doubtful shock of Arms. But on thy side I may not be too forward, Lest being seen, thy Brother, tender George Be executed in his Father's sight. Farewell: the leisure, and the fearful time Cuts off the ceremonious Vows of Love, And ample interchange of sweet Discourse, Which so long sundered Friends should dwell upon: God give us leisure for these rites of Love.. Once more Adieu, be valiant, and speed well. Good Lords conduct him to his Regiment: I'll strive with troubled noise, to take a Nap, Lest leaden slumber peise me down to morrow, When I should mount with wings of Victory: Once more, good night kind Lords and Gentlemen. O thou, whose Captain I account myself, Look on my Forces with a gracious eye: Put in their hands thy bruising Irons of wrath, That they may crush down with a heavy fall, Th' usurping Helmets of our Adversaries: Make us thy ministers of Chastisement, That we may praise thee in thy victory: To thee I do commend my watchful soul, Ere I let fall the windows of mine eves: Sleeping, and waking, oh defend me still. Let me sit heavy on thy soul to morrow: Think how thou stabbedst me in my prime of youth At Teukesbury: Despair therefore, and dye. Be cheerful Richmond, For the wronged Souls Of butchered Princes, fight in thy behalf: King Henry's issue Richmond comforts thee. When I was mortal, my Anointed body By thee was punched full of holes; Think on the Tower, and me: Despair, and dye, Harry the sixth, bids thee despair, and dye. Virtuous and holy be thou Conqueror: Harry that prophesied thou shouldst be King, Doth comfort thee in sleep: Live, and flourish. Let me sit heavy in thy soul to morrow. I that was washed to death with Fulsome Wine: Poor Clarence by thy guile betrayed to death: To morrow in the battle think on me, And fall thy edgelesse Sword, despair and dye. Thou offspring of the house of Lancaster The wronged heirs of York do pray for thee, Good Angels guard thy battle, Live and Flourish. Let me sit heavy in thy soul to morrow, Rivers, that died at Pomfret: despair, and dye. Think upon Grey, and let thy soul despair. Think upon Vaughan, and with guilty fear Let fall thy Lance, despair and dye. Awake, And think our wrongs in Richard's Bosom, Will conquer him. Awake, and win the day. Bloody and guilty: guiltily awake, And in a bloody Battle end thy days. Think on Lord Hastings: despair, and dye.
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)
I by Attourney, bleſſe thee from thy Mother, Who prayes continually for Richmonds good: So much for that. The ſilent houres ſteale on, And flakie darkeneſſe breakes within the Eaſt. In breefe, for ſo the ſeaſon bids vs be, Prepare thy Battell early in the Morning, And put thy Fortune to th' Arbitrement Of bloody ſtroakes, and mortall ſtaring Warre: I, as I may, that which I would I cannot, With beſt aduantage will deceiue the time, And ayde thee in this doubtfull ſhocke of Armes. But on thy ſide I may not be too forward, Leaſt being ſeene, thy Brother, tender George Be executed in his Fathers ſight. Farewell: the leyſure, and the fearfull time Cuts off the ceremonious Vowes of Loue, And ample enterchange of ſweet Diſcourſe, Which ſo long ſundred Friends ſhould dwell vpon: God giue vs leyſure for theſe rites of Loue. Once more Adieu, be valiant, and ſpeed well. Good Lords conduct him to his Regiment: Ile ſtriue with troubled noiſe, to take a Nap, Leſt leaden ſlumber peize me downe to morrow, When I ſhould mount with wings of Victory: Once more, good night kinde Lords and Gentlemen. O thou, whoſe Captaine I account my ſelfe, Looke on my Forces with a gracious eye: Put in their hands thy bruiſing Irons of wrath, That they may cruſh downe with a heauy fall, Th' vſurping Helmets of our Aduerſaries: Make vs thy miniſters of Chaſticement, That we may praiſe thee in thy victory: To thee I do commend my watchfull ſoule, Ere I let fall the windowes of mine eves: Sleeping, and waking, oh defend me ſtill. Let me ſit heauy on thy ſoule to morrow: Thinke how thou ſtab'ſt me in my prime of youth At Teukesbury: Diſpaire therefore, and dye. Be chearefull Richmond, For the wronged Soules Of butcher'd Princes, fight in thy behalfe: King Henries iſſue Richmond comforts thee. When I was mortall, my Annointed body By thee was punched full of holes; Thinke on the Tower, and me: Diſpaire, and dye, Harry the ſixt, bids thee diſpaire, and dye. Vertuous and holy be thou Conqueror: Harry that propheſied thou ſhould'ſt be King, Doth comfort thee in ſleepe: Liue, and flouriſh. Let me ſit heauy in thy ſoule to morrow. I that was waſh'd to death with Fulſome Wine: Poore Clarence by thy gule betray'd to death: To morrow in the battell thinke on me, And fall thy edgeleſſe Sword, diſpaire and dye. Thou off-ſpring of the houſe of Lancaſter The wronged heyres of Yorke do pray for thee, Good Angels guard thy battell, Liue and Flouriſh. Let me ſit heauy in thy ſoule to morrow, Riuers, that dy'de at Pomfret: diſpaire, and dye. Thinke vpon Grey, and let thy ſoule diſpaire. Thinke vpon Vaughan, and with guilty feare Let fall thy Lance, diſpaire and dye. Awake, And thinke our wrongs in Richards Boſome, Will conquer him. Awake, and win the day. Bloody and guilty: guiltily awake, And in a bloody Battell end thy dayes. Thinke on Lord Haſtings: diſpaire, and dye.