Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · 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 · 518 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
OPen your Ears: For which of you will stop The vent of Hearing, when loud Rumour speaks? I, from the Orient, to the drooping West (Making the wind my Post-horse) still unfold The Acts commenced on this Ball of Earth. Upon my Tongue, continual Slanders ride, The which, in every Language, I pronounce, Stuffing the Ears of them with false Reports: I speak of Peace, while covert Enmity (Under the smile of Safety) wounds the World: And who but Rumour, who but only I Make fearful Masters, and prepared Defence, Whilst the big year, swollen with some other griefs, Is thought with child, by the stern Tyrant, War, And no such matter? Rumour, is a Pipe Blown by Surmises, jealousies, Conjectures; And of so easy, and so plain a stop, That the blunt Monster, with uncounted heads, The still discordant, wavering Multitude, Can play upon it. But what need I thus My well-known Body to Anathomize Among my household? Why is Rumour here? I run before King Harry's victory, Who in a bloody field by Shrewsburie Hath beaten down young Hotspurre, and his Troops, Quenching the flame of bold Rebellion, Even with the Rebel's blood. But what mean I To speak so true at first? My Office is To noise abroad, that Harry Monmouth fell Under the Wrath of Noble Hotspurres Sword: And that the King, before the Dowglas Rage Stooped his Anointed head, as low as death. This have I rumoured through the peasant-Townes, Between the Royal Field of Shrewsburie, And this Worme-eaten-Hole of ragged Stone. Where Hotspurres Father, old Northumberland, Lies crafty sick. The Posts come tiring on, And not a man of them brings other news Than they have learned of Me. From Rumours Tongues, They bring smooth-Comforts-false, worse than True-wrongs. Who keeps the Gate here how? Where is the Earl? What shall I say you are? Tell thou the Earl That the Lord Bardolfe doth attend him here. His Lordship is walked forth into the Orchard, Please it your Honour, knock but at the Gate, And he himself will answer. here comes the Earl. What news Lord Bardolfe? Every minute now Should be the Father of some Stratagem; The Times are wild: Contention (like a Horse Full of high Feeding) madly hath broke lose, And bears down all before him. Noble Earl, I bring you certain news from Shrewsbury. Good, and heaven will. As good as heart can wish: The King is almost wounded to the death: And in the Fortune of my Lord your Son, Prince Harrie slain outright: and both the Blunts. Killed by the hand of Dowglas. Young Prince Iohn, And Westmoreland, and Stafford, fled the Field. And Harrie Monmouth's Brawn (the Hulk Sir Iohn) Is prisoner to your Son. O, such a Day, (So fought, so followed, and so fairly won) Came not, till now, to dignify the Times Since Caesar's Fortunes. How is this derived? Saw you the Field? Came you from Shrewsbury? I spoke with one (my L.) that came from thence, A Gentleman well bred, and of good name, That freely rendered me these news for true.
seed 43: T22 · seed 44: T13 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
OPen your Eares: For which of you will ſtop The vent of Hearing, when loud Rumor ſpeakes? I, from the Orient, to the drooping Weſt (Making the winde my Poſt-horſe) ſtill vnfold The Acts commenced on this Ball of Earth. Vpon my Tongue, continuall Slanders ride, The which, in euery Language, I pronounce, Stuffing the Eares of them with falſe Reports: I ſpeake of Peace, while couert Enmitie (Vnder the ſmile of Safety) wounds the World: And who but Rumour, who but onely I Make fearfull Maſters, and prepar'd Defence, Whil'ſt the bigge yeare, ſwolne with ſome other griefes, Is thought with childe, by the ſterne Tyrant, Warre, And no ſuch matter? Rumour, is a Pipe Blowne by Surmiſes▪ Ielouſies, Coniectures; And of ſo eaſie, and ſo plaine a ſtop, That the blunt Monſter, with vncounted heads, The ſtill diſcordant, wauering Multitude, Can play vpon it. But what neede I thus My well-knowne Body to Anathomize Among my houſhold? Why is Rumour heere? I run before King Harries victory, Who in a bloodie field by Shrewsburie Hath beaten downe yong Hotſpurre, and his Troopes, Quenching the flame of bold Rebellion, Euen with the Rebels blood. But what meane I To ſpeake ſo true at firſt? My Office is To noyſe abroad, that Harry Monmouth fell Vnder the Wrath of Noble Hotſpurres Sword: And that the King, before the Dowglas Rage Stoop'd his Annointed head, as low as death. This haue I rumour'd through the peaſant-Townes, Betweene the Royall Field of Shrewsburie, And this Worme-eaten-Hole of ragged Stone. Where Hotſpurres Father, old Northumberland, Lyes crafty ſicke. The Poſtes come tyring on, And not a man of them brings other newes Then they haue learn'd of Me. From Rumours Tongues, They bring ſmooth-Comforts-falſe, worſe then True-wrongs. Who keepes the Gate heere ho? Where is the Earle? What ſhall I ſay you are? Tell thou the Earle That the Lord Bardolfe doth attend him heere. His Lordſhip is walk'd forth into the Orchard, Pleaſe it your Honor, knocke but at the Gate, And he himſelfe will anſwer. Heere comes the Earle. What newes Lord Bardolfe? Eu'ry minute now Should be the Father of ſome Stratagem; The Times are wilde: Contention (like a Horſe Full of high Feeding) madly hath broke looſe, And beares downe all before him. Noble Earle, I bring you certaine newes from Shrewsbury. Good, and heauen will. As good as heart can wiſh: The King is almoſt wounded to the death: And in the Fortune of my Lord your Sonne, Prince Harrie ſlaine out-right: and both the Blunts. Kill'd by the hand of Dowglas. Yong Prince Iohn, And Weſtmerland, and Stafford, fled the Field. And Harrie Monmouth's Brawne (the Hulke Sir Iohn) Is priſoner to your Sonne. O, ſuch a Day, (So fought, ſo follow'd, and ſo fairely wonne) Came not, till now, to dignifie the Times Since Caeſars Fortunes. How is this deriu'd? Saw you the Field? Came you from Shrewsbury? I ſpake with one (my L.) that came frō thence, A Gentleman well bred, and of good name, That freely render'd me theſe newes for true.