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 · 517 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
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 somebody. Ratcliff. My Lord. The Sun will not 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 selfsame 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 Stanley, 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 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 the Foot and Horse. They thus directed, we will fllow In the main Battle, whose puissance on either side Shall be well-winged with our chiefest Horse: This, and Saint George to boot. 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 Dickon thy master is bought and sold. A thing devised by the Enemy. Go Gentlemen, every man to his Charge, Let not our babbling Dreams affright our souls: For Conscience is a word that Cowards use, Devised at first to keep the strong in awe, Our strong arms be our Conscience, Swords our Law. March on, join bravely, let us too't pell mell, If not to heaven, than 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 Britons, and base Lackey Peasants, Whom their o're-cloyed Country vomits forth To desperate Adventures, and assured Destruction. You sleeping safe, they bring you to unrest: You having Lands, and blessed with beauteous wives, They would restrain the one, distain the other, And who doth lead them, but a paltry Fellow? Long kept in Britain at our Mother's cost, A Milksop, 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 on Record, left them the heirs of shame. Shall these enjoy our Lands? lie with our Wives? Ravish our daughters? Hark, I hear their Drum, Right Gentlemen of England, fight boldly 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: 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)
Then he diſdaines to ſhine: for by the Booke He ſhould haue brau'd the Eaſt an houre ago, A blacke day will it be to ſomebody. Ratcliffe. My Lord. The Sun will not be ſeene to day, The sky doth frowne, and lowre vpon our Army. I would theſe dewy teares were from the ground. Not ſhine to day? Why, what is that to me More then to Richmond? For the ſelfe-ſame Heauen That frownes on me, lookes ſadly vpon him. Arme, arme, my Lord: the foe vaunts in the field. Come, buſtle, buſtle. Capariſon my horſe. Call vp Lord Stanley, bid him bring his power, I will leade forth my Soldiers to the plaine, And thus my Battell ſhal be ordred. My Foreward ſhall be drawne in length, Conſiſting equally of Horſe and Foot: Our Archers ſhall be placed in the mid'ſt; Iohn Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Earle of Surrey, Shall haue the leading of the Foot and Horſe. They thus directed, we will fllow In the maine Battell, whoſe puiſſance on either ſide Shall be well-winged with our cheefeſt Horſe: This, and Saint George to boote. What think'ſt thou Norfolke. A good direction warlike Soueraigne, This found I on my Tent this Morning. Iockey of Norfolke, be not ſo bold, For Dickon thy maiſter is bought and ſold. A thing deuiſed by the Enemy. Go Gentlemen, euery man to his Charge, Let not our babling Dreames affright our ſoules: For Conſcience is a word that Cowards vſe, Deuis'd at firſt to keepe the ſtrong in awe, Our ſtrong armes be our Conſcience, Swords our Law. March on, ioyne brauely, let vs too't pell mell, If not to heauen, then hand in hand to Hell. What ſhall I ſay more then I haue inferr'd? Remember whom you are to cope withall, A ſort of Vagabonds, Raſcals, and Run-awayes, A ſcum of Brittaines, and baſe Lackey Pezants, Whom their o're-cloyed Country vomits forth To deſperate Aduentures, and aſſur'd Deſtruction. You ſleeping ſafe, they bring you to vnreſt: You hauing Lands, and bleſt with beauteous wiues, They would reſtraine the one, diſtaine the other, And who doth leade them, but a patry Fellow? Long kept in Britaine at our Mothers coſt, A Milke-ſop, one that neuer in his life Felt ſo much cold, as ouer ſhooes in Snow: Let's whip theſe ſtraglers o're the Seas againe, Laſh hence theſe ouer-weening Ragges of France, Theſe famiſh'd Beggers, weary of their liues, Who (but for dreaming on this fond exploit) For want of meanes (poore Rats) had hang'd themſelues. If we be conquered, let men conquer vs, And not theſe baſtard Britaines, whom our Fathers Haue in their owne Land beaten, bobb'd, and thump'd, And on Record, left them the heires of ſhame. Shall theſe enioy our Lands? lye with our Wiues? Rauiſh our daughters? Hearke, I heare their Drumme, Right Gentlemen of England, fight boldly yeomen, Draw Archers draw your Arrowes to the head, Spurre your proud Horſes hard, and ide in blood, Amaze the welkin with your broken ſtaues. What ſayes Lord Stanley, will he bring his power?