Shakespeare, William · published 1600 · first performed or written 1597 [c.1597-1598] (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho · 528 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
Here comes my servant Travers who I sent On tuesday last to listen after news. My lord, I over-rode him on the way, And he is furnished with no certainties, More than he haply may retale from me. Now travers, what good tidings comes with your My lord, sir Iohn Vmfrevile turned me back With joyful tidings▪ and being better horsed, Out road me, after him came spurring hard, A gentleman almost forespent with speed, That stopped by me to breath his bloodied horse, He asked the way to Chester, and of him I did demand what news from Shrewsbury, He told me that rebellion had bad luck, And that young Harrie Percies spur was cold: With that he gave his able horse the head, And bending forward, struck his armed heels, Against the panting sides of his poor jade, Up to the rowel head, and starting so, He seemed in running to devour the way, Staying no longer question. Ha● again, Said he, young Harry Percies spur was cold, Of Hotspur, Cold-spurre, that rebellion Had met ill luck? My lord, I'll tell you what, If my young Lord your son, have not the day, Upon mine honour for a silken point, I'll give my Barony, never talk of it. Why should that gentleman that road by Travers, Give then such instances of loss? Who he? He was some hilding fellow that had stolen The horse he road on, and upon my life Spoke at a venture. Look, here comes more news. Yea this man's brow, like to a title leaf, Foretells the nature of a tragic volume, So looks the strand, whereon the imperious flood, Hath left a witnessed usurpation. Say Mourton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury? I ran from Shrewsbury my noble lord, Where hateful death put on his ugliest mask, To fright our party. How doth my son and brother? Thou tremblest, and the whiteness in thy cheek, Is apt than thy tongue to tell thy errand, Even such a man, so faint, so spirritlesse, So dull, so dead in look, so woe begun, Drew Priam's curtain in the dead of night, And would have told him, half his Troy was burnt: But Priam found the fire, ere he, his tongue, And I, my Percies death ere thou reportest it. This thou wouldst say, Your son did thus and thus, Your brother thus: so fought the noble Dowglas, Stopping my greedy ear with their bold deeds, But in the end, to stop my ear indeed, Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise, Ending with brother, son, and all are dead. Douglas is living, and your brother yet, But for my Lord your son: Why he is dead? See what a ready tongue Suspicion hath! He that but fears the thing he would not know, Hath by instinct, knowledge from others eyes, That what he feared is chanced: yet speak Mourton, Tell thou an Earl, his divination lies, And I will take it as a sweet disgrace, And make thee rich for doing me such wrong. You are too great to be by me gainsaid, Your spirit is too true, your fears too certain.
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)
Here comes my seruant Trauers who I sent On tuesday last to listen after newes. My lord, I ouer-rode him on the way, And he is furnisht with no certainties, More then he haply may retale from me. Now Traers, what good tidings comes with you My lord, sir Iohn Vmfreuile turnd me backe With ioyfull tidings▪ and being better horst, Out rode me, after him came spurring hard, A gentleman almost forespent with speede, That stopt by me to breathe his bloudied horse, He askt the way to Chester, and of him I did demand what newes from Shrewsbury, He told me that rebellion had bad lucke, And that yong Harrie Percies spur was cold: With that he gaue his able horse the head, And bending forward, strooke his armed heeles, Against the panting sides of his poore iade, Vp to the rowell head, and starting so, He seem'd in running to deuoure the way, Staying no longer question. Ha againe, Said he, yong Harry Percies spur was cold, Of Hot-spurre, Cold-spurre, that rebellion Had met ill lucke? My lord, Ile tell you what, If my yong Lord your sonne, haue not the day, Vpon mine honor for a silken point, Ile giue my Barony, neuer talke of it. Why should that gentleman that rode by Trauers, Giue then such instances of losse? Who he? He was some hilding fellow that had stolne The horse he rode on, and vpon my life Spoke at a venter. Looke, here comes more news. Yea this mans brow, like to a title leafe, Foretells the nature of a tragicke volume, So lookes the strond, whereon the imperious floud, Hath left a witnest vsurpation. Say Mourton, didst thou come from Shrewsbury? I ranne from Shrewsbury my noble lord, Where hatefull death put on his vgliest maske, To fright our partie. How doth my sonne and brother? Thou tremblest, and the whitenes in thy cheeke, Is apter then thy tongue to tell thy arrand, Euen such a man, so faint, so spirritlesse, So dull, so dead in looke, so woe begon, Drew Priams curtaine in the dead of night, And would haue told him, halfe his Troy was burnt: But Priam found the fier, ere he, his tongue, And I, my Percies death ere thou reportst it. This thou wouldst say, Your son did thus and thus, Your brother thus: so fought the noble Dowglas, Stopping my greedy eare with their bold deedes, But in the end, t stop my eare indeed, Thou hast a sigh to blow away this praise, Ending with brother, sonne, and all are dead. Douglas is liuing, and your brother yet, But for my Lord your sonne: Why he is dead? See what a ready tongue Suspition hath! He that but feares the thing hee would not know, Hath by instinct, knowledge from others eies, That what he feard is chanced: yet speake Mourton, Tell thou an Earle, his diuination lies, And I will take it as a sweete disgrace, And make thee rich for doing me such wrong. You are too great to be by me gainsaid, Your spirite is too true, your feares too certaine.