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 0.79 · 504 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.
The English are embattled, you French Peers. To Horse you gallant Princes, strait to Horse. Do but behold yond poor and starved Band, And your fair show shall suck away their Souls, Leaving them but the shales and husks of men. There is not work enough for all our hands, Scarce blood enough in all their sickly Veins, To give each naked Curtleax a stain, That our French Gallants shall to day draw out, And sheath for lack of sport. Let us but blow on them, The vapour of our Valour will o'erturn them. 'Tis positive against all exceptions, Lords, That our superfluous Lackeys, and our Peasants, Who in unnecessary action swarm About our Squares of Battle, were enough To purge this field of such a hilding Foe; Though we upon this Mountain's Basis by, took stand for idle speculation: But that our Honours must not. What's to say? A very little little let us do, And all is done: then let the Trumpets sound The Tucket Sonnance, and the Note to mount: For our approach shall so much dare the field, That England shall couch down in fear, and yield. Why do you stay so long, my Lords of France? Yond Island Carrions, desperate of their bones, Ill-fauoredly become the Morning field: Their ragged Curtains poorly are let lose, And our Air shakes them passing scornfully. Big Mars seems bankrupt in their beggared Host, And faintly through a rusty Beaver peeps. The Horsemen sit like fixed Candlesticks, With Torch-staves in their hand: and their poor jades Job down their heads, dropping the hides and hips: The gum down roping from their pale-dead eyes, And in their pale dull mouths the Iymold Bit Lies foul with chaw'd-grasse, still and motionless. And their executors, the knavish Crows, Fly o'er them all, impatient for their hour. Description cannot suit itself in words, To demonstrate the Life of such a Battle, In life so liveless, as it shows itself. They have said their prayers, And they stay for death. Shall we go send them Dinners, and fresh Suits, And give their fasting Horses Provender, And after fight with them? I stay but for my Guard: on To the field, I will the Banner from a Trumpet take, And use it for my haste. Come, come away, The Sun is high, and we outwear the day. Where is the King? The King himself is road to view their Battle. Of fight men they have full threescore thousand. There's five to one, besides they all are fresh. Gods Arm strike with us, 'tis a fearful odds. God buy ' you Princes all; I'll to my Charge: If we no more meet, till we meet in Heaven; Then joyfully, my Noble Lord of Bedford, My dear Lord Gloucester, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind Kinsman, Warriors all, adieu. Farewell good Salisbury, & good luck go with thee: And yet I do thee wrong, to mind thee of it, For thou art framed of the firm truth of valour.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1570–1633 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 34 of 51 in this edition
Length
504 words · 692 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T10 — England and France: war, embassy and peacecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.788 (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)
The Engliſh are embattail'd, you French Peeres. To Horſe you gallant Princes, ſtraight to Horſe. Doe but behold yond poore and ſtarued Band, And your faire ſhew ſhall ſuck away their Soules, Leauing them but the ſhales and huskes of men. There is not worke enough for all our hands, Scarce blood enough in all their ſickly Veines, To giue each naked Curtleax a ſtayne, That our French Gallant ſhall to day draw out, And ſheath for lack of ſport. Let vs but blow on them, The vapour of our Valour will o're-turne them. 'Tis poſitiue againſt all exceptions, Lords, That our ſuperfluous Lacquies, and our Peſants, Who in vnneceſſarie action ſwarme About our Squares of Battaile, were enow To purge this field of ſuch a hilding Foe; Though we vpon this Mountaines Baſis by, Tooke ſtand for idle ſpeculation: But that our Honours muſt not. What's to ſay? A very little little let vs doe, And all is done: then let the Trumpets ſound The Tucket Sonnance, and the Note to mount: For our approach ſhall ſo much dare the field, That England ſhall couch downe in feare, and yeeld. Why do you ſtay ſo long, my Lords of France? Yond Iland Carrions, deſperate of their bones, Ill-fauoredly become the Morning field: Their ragged Curtaines poorely are let looſe, And our Ayre ſhakes them paſſing ſcornefully. Bigge Mars ſeemes banqu'rout in their begger'd Hoaſt, And faintly through a ruſtie Beuer peepes. The Horſemen ſit like fixed Candleſticks, With Torch-ſtaues in their hand: and their poore Iades Lob downe their heads, dropping the hides and hips: The gumme downe roping from their pale-dead eyes, And in their pale dull mouthes the Iymold Bitt Lyes foule with chaw'd-graſſe, ſtill and motionleſſe. And their executors, the knauiſh Crowes, Flye o're them all, impatient for their howre. Deſcription cannot ſute it ſelfe in words, To demonſtrate the Life of ſuch a Battaile, In life ſo liueleſſe, as it ſhewes it ſelfe. They haue ſaid their prayers, And they ay for death. Shall we goe ſend them Dinners, and freſh Sutes, And giue their faſting Horſes Prouender, And after fight with them? I ſtay but for my Guard: on To the field, I will the Banner from a Trumpet take, And vſe it for my haſte. Come, come away, The Sunne is high, and we out-weare the day. Where is the King? The King himſelfe is rode to view their Battaile. Of fighting men they haue full threeſcore thouſand. There's fiue to one, beſides they all are freſh. Gods Arme ſtrike with vs, 'tis a fearefull oddes. God buy' you Princes all; Ile to my Charge: If we no more meet, till we meet in Heauen; Then ioyfully, my Noble Lord of Bedford, My deare Lord Glouceſter, and my good Lord Exeter, And my kind Kinſman, Warriors all, adieu. Farwell good Salisbury, & good luck go with thee: And yet I doe thee wrong, to mind thee of it, For thou art fram'd of the firme truth of valour.