Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1599 (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea typicality 0.84 · 501 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
Excellent, Madame. C' est asses pour une foyes, alons nous a dinner. 'Tis certain he hath passed the River Some. And if he be not fought withal, my Lord, Let us not live in France: let us quit all, And give our Vineyards to a barbarous People. O Dieu vivant: Shall a few Sprays of us, The emptying of our Father's Luxury, Our Scions, put in wild and savage Stock, Spirit up so suddenly into the Clouds, And overlook their Grafters? Normans, but bastard Normans, Norman bastards: Mort du mavie, if they march along Unfought withal, but I will sell my Dukedom, To buy a slobbry and a dirty Farm In that nooke-shotten I'll of Albion. Dieu de Battles, where have they this metal? Is not their Climate foggy, raw, and dull? On whom, as in despite, the Sun looks pale, Killing their Fruit with frowns. Can sodden Water, A Drench for sur-reyned jades, their Barly broth, Decoct their cold blood to such valiant heat? And shall our quick blood, spirited with Wine, Seem frosty? O, for honour of our Land, Let us not hang like roping Isyckles Upon our House's Thatch, whiles a more frosty People Sweat drops of gallant Youth in our rich fields: Poor we call them, in their Native Lords. By Faith and Honour, Our Madams mock at us, and plainly say, Our Mettle is bred out, and they will give Their bodies to the Lust of English Youth, To new-store France with Bastard Warriors. They bid us to the English Dancing-schools, And teach Lauolta's high, and swift Carrantoes, Saying, our Grace is only in our Heels, And that we are most lofty Runaways. Where is Montioy the Herald? speed him hence, Let him greet England with our sharp defiance. up Princes, and with spirit of Honour edged, More sharper than your Swords, high to the field: Charles Delabreth, High Constable of France, You Dukes of Orleans, Bourbon, and of Berry, Alencon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgonic, Iaques Chattillion, Rambures, Vandemont, Beumont, Grand Free, Roussi, and Faulconbridge, Joys, Lestrake, Bouciquall, and Charlaloys, High Dukes, great Princes, Barons, Lords, and Kings; For your great Seats, now quit you of great shames: Bar Harry England, that sweeps through our Land With Pennons painted in the blood of Harflew: Rush on his Host, as doth the melted Snow Upon the Valleys, whose low Vassal Seat, The Alpes doth spit, and void his rheum upon. Go down upon him you have Power enough, And in a Captive Chariot into Rouen Bring him our Prisoner. This becomes the Great. Sorry am I his numbers are so few, His Soldiers sick, and famished in their March: For I am sure, when he shall see our Army, he'll drop his heart into the sink of fear, And for achievement, offer us his Ransom. Therefore Lord Constable, hast on Montioy, And let him say to England, that we send, To know what willing Ransom he will give. Prince Dolphin, you shall stay with us in Rouen.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1101–1167 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 22 of 51 in this edition
Length
501 words · 748 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T10 — England and France: war, embassy and peacecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.845 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
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)
Excellent, Madame. C' eſt aſſes pour vne foyes, alons nous a diner. 'Tis certaine he hath paſt the Riuer Some. And if he be not fought withall, my Lord, Let vs not liue in France: let vs quit all, And giue our Vineyards to a barbarous People. O Dieu viuant: Shall a few Sprayes of vs, The emptying of our Fathers Luxurie, Our Syens, put in wilde and ſauage Stock, Spirt vp ſo ſuddenly into the Clouds, And ouer-looke their Grafters? Normans, but baſtard Normans, Norman baſtards: Mort du mavie, if they march along Vnfought withall, but I will ſell my Dukedome, To buy a ſlobbry and a durtie Farme In that nooke-ſhotten Ile of Albion. Dieu de Battailes, where haue they this mettell? Is not their Clymate foggy, raw, and dull? On whom, as in deſpight, the Sunne lookes pale, Killing their Fruit with frownes. Can ſodden Water, A Drench for ſur-reyn'd ades, their Baly broth, Decoct their cold blood to ſuch valiant heat? And ſhall our quick blood, ſpirited with Wine, Seeme froſtie? O, for honor of our Land, Let vs not hang like roping Iſyckles Vpon our Houſes Thatch, whiles a more froſtie People Sweat drops of gallant Youth in our rich fields: Poore we call them, in their Natiue Lords. By Faith and Honor, Our Madames mock at vs, and plainely ſay, Our Mettell is bred out, and they will giue Their bodyes to the Luſt of Engliſh Youth, To new-ſtore France with Baſtard Warriors. They bid vs to the Engliſh Dancing-Schooles, And teach Lauolta's high, and ſwift Carranto's, Saying, our Grace is onely in our Heeles, And that we are moſt loftie Run-awayes. Where is Montioy the Herald? ſpeed him hence, Let him greet England with our ſharpe defiance. Vp Princes, and with ſpirit of Honor edged, More ſharper then your Swords, high to the field: Charles Delabreth, High Conſtable of France, You Dukes of Orleance, Burbon, and of Berry, Alanſon, Brabant, Bar, and Burgonic, Iaques Chattillion, Rambures, Vandemont, Beumont, Grand Free, Rouſſi, and Faulconbridge, Loys, Leſtrale, Bouciquall, and Charaloyes, High Dukes, great Princes, Barons, Lords, and Kings; For your great Seats, now quit you of great ſhames: Barre Harry England, that ſweepes through our Land With Penons painted in the blood of Haflew: Ruſh on his Hoaſt, as doth the melted Snow Vpon the Valleyes, whoſe low Vaſſall Seat, The Alpes doth ſpit, and void his rhewme vpon. Goe downe vpon him you haue Power enough, And in a Captiue Chariot into Roan Bring him our Priſoner. This becomes the Great. Sorry am I his numbers are ſo few, His Souldiers ſick, and famiſht in their March: For I am ſure, when he ſhall ſee our Army, Hee'le drop his heart into the ſinck of feare, And for atchieuement, offer vs his Ranſome. Therefore Lord Conſtable, haſt on Montioy, And let him ſay to England, that we ſend, To know what willing Ranſome he will giue. Prince Dolphin, you ſhall ſtay with vs in Roan.