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 0.87 · 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.
Thus says my King: Say thou to Harry of England, Though we seemed dead, we did but sleep: Advantage is a better Soldier than rashness. Tell him, we could have rebuked him at Harflewe, but that we thought not good to bruise an injury, till it were full ripe. Now we speak upon our Q. and our voice is imperial: England shall repent his folly, see his weakness, and admire our sufferance. Bid him therefore consider of his ransom, which must proportion the losses we have borne, the subjects we have lost, the disgrace we have digested; which in weight to re-answer, his pettinesse would bow under. For our losses, his Exchequer is too poor; for th' effusion of our blood, the Muster of his Kingdom too faint a number; and for our disgrace, his own person kneeling at our feet, but a weak and worthless satisfaction. To this add defiance: and tell him for conclusion, he hath betrayed his followers, whose condemnation is pronounced: So far my King and Master; so much my Office. What is thy name? I know thy quality. Mountioy. Thou dost thy Office fairly. Turn thee back, And tell thy King, I do not seek him now, But could be willing to march on to Calais, Without impeachment: for to say the sooth, Though 'tis no wisdom to confess so much Unto an enemy of Craft and Vantage, My people are with sickness much enfeebled, My numbers lessened: and those few I have, Almost no better than so many French; Who when they were in health, I tell thee Herald, I thought, upon one pair of English Legs Did march three Frenchmen. Yet forgive me God, That I do brag thus; this your air of France Hath blown that vice in me. I must repent: Go therefore tell thy Master, here I am; My Ransom, is this frail and worthless Trunk; My Army, but a weak and sickly Guard: Yet God before, tell him we will come on, Though France himself, and such another Neighbour Stand in our way. There's for thy labour Mountioy. Go bid thy Master well advise himself. If we may pass, we will: if we be hindered, We shall your tawny ground with your red blood Discolour: and so Mountioy, far you well. The sum of all our Answer is but this: We would not seek a Battle as we are, Nor as we are, we say we will not shun it: So tell your Master. I shall deliver so: Thanks to your Highness. I hope they will not come upon us now. We are in God's hand, Brother, not in theirs: March to the Bridge, t now draws toward night, Beyond the River we'll encamp ourselves, And on to morrow bid them march away. Tut, I have the best Armour of the World: would it were day. You have an excellent Armour; but let my Horse have his due. It is the best Horse of Europe. Will it never be Morning?
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1206–1246 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 25 of 51 in this edition
Length
501 words · 648 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T10 — England and France: war, embassy and peacecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.870 (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)
Thus ſayes my King: Say thou to Harry of England, Though we ſeem'd dead, we did but ſleepe: Aduantage is a better Souldier then raſhneſſe. Tell him, wee could haue rebuk'd him at Harflewe, but that wee thought not good to bruiſe an iniurie, till it were full ripe. Now wee ſpeake vpon our Q. and our voyce is imperiall: England ſhall repent his folly, ſee his weakeneſſe, and admire our ſufferance. Bid him therefore conſider of his ranſome, which muſt proportion the loſſes we haue borne, the ſubiects we haue loſt, the diſgrace we haue digeſted; which in weight to re-anſwer, his pettineſſe would bow vnder. For our loſſes, his Exchequer is too poore; for th' effuſion of our bloud, the Muſter of his Kingdome too faint a number; and for our diſgrace, his owne perſon kneeling at our feet, but a weake and worthleſſe ſatisfaction. To this adde defiance: and tell him for concluſion, he hath betrayed his followers, whoſe condemnation is pronounc't: So farre my King and Maſter; ſo much my Office. What is thy name? I know thy qualitie. Mountioy. Thou doo'ſt thy Office fairely. Turne thee back, And tell thy King, I doe not ſeeke him now, But could be willing to march on to Callice, Without impeachment: for to ſay the ſooth, Though 'tis no wiſdome to confeſſe ſo much Vnto an enemie of Craft and Vantage, My people are with ſickneſſe much enfeebled, My numbers leſſen'd: and thoſe few I haue, Almoſt no better then ſo many French; Who when they were in health, I tell thee Herald, I thought, vpon one payre of Engliſh Legges Did march three Frenchmen. Yet forgiue me God, That I doe bragge thus; this your ayre of France Hath blowne that vice in me. I muſt repent: Goe therefore tell thy Maſter, heere I am; My Ranſome, is this frayle and worthleſſe Trunke; My Army, but a weake and ſickly Guard: Yet God before, tell him we will come on, Though France himſelfe, and ſuch another Neighbor Stand in our way. There's for thy labour Mountioy. Goe bid thy Maſter well aduiſe himſelfe. If we may paſſe, we will: if we be hindred, We ſhall your tawnie ground with your red blood Diſcolour: and ſo Mountioy, fare you well. The ſumme of all our Anſwer is but this: We would not ſeeke a Battaile as we are, Nor as we are, we ſay we will not ſhun it: So tell your Maſter. I ſhall deliuer ſo: Thankes to your Highneſſe. I hope they will not come vpon vs now. We are in Gods hand, Brother, not in theirs: March to the Bridge, t now drawes toward night, Beyond the Riuer wee'le encampe our ſelues, And on to morrow bid them march away. Tut, I haue the beſt Armour of the World: would it were day. You haue an excellent Armour; but let my Horſe haue his due. It is the beſt Horſe of Europe. Will it neuer be Morning?