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 · 523 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.
here comes my Servant Travers, whom I sent On Tuesday last, to listen after News. My Lord, I over-rod him on the way, And he is furnished with no certainties, More than he (haply) may retail from me. Now Travers, what good tidings comes from you? My Lord, Sir Iohn Vmfrevill turned me back With joyful tidings; and (being better horsed) Out-rod me. After him, came spurring head A Gentleman (almost fore-spent with speed) That stopped by me, to breathe 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 ill luck, And that young Harry Percies Spur was cold. With that he gave his able Horse the head, And bending forwards strooke his able 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 Harrie Percyes' Spur was cold? (Of Hot-Spurre, coldspurre?) 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 the Gentleman that road by Travers Give then such instances of Loss? Who, he? He was some hielding Fellow, that had stolen The Horse he rode-on: and upon my life Speak at adventure. Look, here comes more News. Yea, this man's brow, like to a Title-leafe, Foretells the Nature of a Tragic Volume: So looks the Strand, when the Imperious Flood Hath left a witnessed Usurpation. Say Morton, 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 trembl'st; and the whiteness in thy Cheek Is apt than thy Tongue, to tell thy Errand. Even such a man, so faint, so spiritless, So dull, so dead in look, so woe-be-gone, Drew Priam's Curtain, in the dead of night, And would have told him, Half his Troy was burned. 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 mine Ear indeed) Thou hast a Sigh, to blow away this Praise, Ending with Brother, Son, and all are dead. Dowglas 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 (Morton) Tell thou thy 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)
Heere comes my Seruant Trauers, whom I ſent On Tueſday laſt, to liſten after Newes. My Lord, I ouer-rod him on the way, And he is furniſh'd with no certainties, More then he (haply) may retaile from me. Now Trauers, what good tidings comes frō you? My Lord, Sir Iohn Ʋmfreuill turn'd me backe With ioyfull tydings; and (being better hors'd) Out-rod me. After him, came ſpurring head A Gentleman (almoſt fore-ſpent with ſpeed) That ſtopp'd by me, to breath his bloodied horſe. He ask'd the way to Cheſter: And of him I did demand what Newes from Shrewsbury: He told me, that Rebellion had ill lucke, And that yong Harry Percies Spurre was cold. With that he gaue his able Horſe the head, And bending forwards ſtrooke his able 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 Harrie Percyes Spurre 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 the Gentleman that rode by Trauers Giue then ſuch inſtances of Loſſe? Who, he? He was ſome hielding Fellow, that had ſtolne The Horſe he rode-on: and vpon my life Speake at aduenture. Looke, here comes more Newes. Yea, this mans brow, like to a Title-leafe, Fore-tels the Nature of a Tragicke Volume: So lookes the Strond, when the Imperious Flood Hath left a witneſt Vſurpation. Say Morton, did'ſt thou come from Shrewsbury? I ran from Shrewsbury (my Noble Lord) Where hatefull death put on his vglieſt Maske To fright our party. How doth my Sonne, and Brother? Thou trembl'ſt; and the whiteneſſe in thy Cheeke Is apter then thy Tongue, to tell thy Errand. Euen ſuch a man, ſo faint, ſo ſpiritleſſe, So dull, ſo dead in looke, ſo woe-be-gone, Drew Priams Curtaine, in the dead of night, And would haue told him, Halfe his Troy was burn'd. But Priam found the Fire, ere he his Tongue: And I, my Percies death, ere thou report'ſt it. This, thou would'ſt ſay: Your Sonne did thus, and thus: Your Brother, thus. So fought the Noble Dowglas, Stopping my greedy eare, with their bold deeds. But in the end (to ſtop mine Eare indeed) Thou haſt a Sigh, to blow away this Praiſe, Ending with Brother, Sonne, and all are dead. Dowglas 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, he would not know, Hath by Inſtinct, knowledge from others Eyes, That what he feard, is chanc'd. Yet ſpeake (Morton) Tell thou thy Earle, his Diuination 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 Feares too certaine.