Shakespeare, William · published 1600 · first performed or written 1599 (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea typicality 0.74 · 495 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
I prithee bear my former answer back: Bid them achieve me, and then sell my bones. Good God, why should they mock good fellows thus? The man that once did sell the Lion's skin, While the beast lived, was killed with hunting him. A many of our bodies shall no doubt Find graves within your realm of France: though buried in your dunghills, we shallbe famed, For there the Sun shall greet them, And draw up their honours reeking up to heaven, Leaving their earthly parts to choke your clime: The smell whereof, shall breed a plague in France: Mark then abundant valour in our English, That being dead, like to the bullets crasing, Breaks forth into a second course of mischief, Killing in relapse of mortality: Let me speak proudly, there's not a piece of feather in our camp, Good argument I hope we shall not fly: And time hath worn us into slovendry. But by the mass, our hearts are in the trim, And my poor soldiers tell me, yet ere night they'll be in fresher robes, or they will pluck The gay new clothes o'er your French soldiers ears, And turn them out of service. If they do this, As if it please God they shall, Then shall our ransom soon be levied. Save thou thy labour Herald: Come thou no more for ransom, gentle Herald. They shall have nought I swear, but these my bones: Which if they have, as I will leave am them, Will yield them little, tell the Constable. I shall deliver so. My gracious Lord, upon my knee I crave, The leading of the vaward. Take it brave York. Come soldiers let's away: And as thou pleasest God, dispose the day. O diabello. Mor du ma vie. O what a day is this! O lour dei houte all is gone, all is lost. We are enough yet living in the field, To smother up the English, If any order might be thought upon. A plague of order, once more to the field, And he that will not follow Bourbon now, Let him go home, and with his cap in hand, Like a base leno hold the chamber door, Why least by a slave no gentler than my dog, His fairest daughter is contamuracke. Disorder that hath spoiled us, right us now, Come we in heaps, we'll offer up our lives Unto these English, or else die with fame. Come, come along, Let's die with honour, our shame doth last too long. Eyld cur, eyld cur. O Monsire, ie vous en pray aves petty de moy. Moy shall not serve. I will have forty moys. Boy ask him his name. Comant ettes vous apelles? monsieur Fer. He says his name is Master Fer. I'll Fer him, and ferret him, and firk him: Boy discus the same in French. Sir I do not know, what's French Forfer, ferret and fearkt. Bid him prepare, for I will cut his throat.
seed 43: T8 · seed 44: T8 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I prethy beare my former answer backe: Bid them atchieue me, and then sell my bones. Good God, why should they mock good fellows thus? The man that once did sell the Lions skin, While the beast liued, was kild with hunting him. A many of our bodies shall no doubt Finde graues within your realme of France: Tho buried in your dunghils, we shalbe famed, For there the Sun shall greete them, And draw vp their honors reaking vp to heauen, Leauing their earthly parts to choke your clyme: The smel wherof, shall breed a plague in France: Marke then abundant valour in our English, That being dead, like to the bullets crasing, Breakes forth into a second course of mischiefe, Killing in relaps of mortalitie: Let me speake proudly, Ther's not a peece of feather in our campe, Good argument I hope we shall not flye: And time hath worne vs into slouendry. But by the mas, our hearts are in the trim, And my poore souldiers tel me, yet ere night Thayle be in fresher robes, or they will plucke The gay new cloathes ore your French souldiers eares, And turne them out of seruice. If they do this, As if it please God they shall, Then shall our ransome soone be leuied. Saue thou thy labour Herauld: Come thou no more for ransom, gentle Herauld. They shall haue nought I sweare, but these my bones: Which if they haue, as I wil leaue am them, Will yeeld them litle, tell the Constable. I shall deliuer so. My gracious Lord, vpon my knee I craue, The leading of the vaward. Take it braue Yorke. Come souldiers lets away: And as thou pleasest God, dispose the day. O diabello. Mor du ma vie. O what a day is this! O lour dei houte all is gone, all is lost. We are inough yet liuing in the field, To smother vp the English, If any order might be thought vpon. A plague of order, once more to the field, And he that will not follow Burbon now, Let him go home, and with his cap in hand, Like a bace leno hold the chamber doore, Why least by a slaue no gentler then my dog, His fairest daughter is contamuracke. Disorder that hath spoyld vs, right vs now, Come we in heapes, weele offer vp our liues Vnto these English, or else die with fame. Come, come along, Lets dye with honour, our shame doth last too long. Eyld cur, eyld cur. O Monsire, ie vous en pree aues petie de moy. Moy shall not serue. I will haue fortie moys. Boy aske him his name. Comant ettes vous apelles? Monsier Fer. He saies his name is Master Fer. Ile Fer him, and ferit him, and ferke him: Boy discus the same in French. Sir I do not know, whats French Forfer, ferit and fearkt. Bid him prepare, for I wil cut his throate.