Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written 1597 [c.1597-1598] (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 556 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Yet for all this, say not that Percies dead. I see a strange Confession in thine Eye: Thou shak'st thy head, and hold'st it Fear, or Sin, To speak a truth. If he be slain, say so: The Tongue offends not, that reports his death: And he doth sin that doth belie the dead: Not he, which says the dead is not alive: Yet the first bringer of unwelcome News Hath but a losing Office: and his Tongue, Sounds ever after as a sullen Bell Remembered, knolling a departing Friend. I cannot think (my Lord) your son is dead. I am sorry, I should force you to believe That, which I would to heaven, I had not seen. But these mine eyes, saw him in bloody state, Rendering faint quittance (wearied, and out-breathed) To Henry Monmouth, whose swift wrath beat down The neuer-daunted Percy to the earth, From whence (with life) he never more sprung up. In few; his death (whose spirit lent a fire, Even to the dullest Peazant in his Camp) Being bruited once, took fire and heat away From the best tempered Courage in his Troops. For from his Mettle, was his Party steeled; Which once, in him abated, all the rest Turned on themselves, like dull and heavy Lead: And as the Thing, that's heavy in itself, Upon enforcement, flies with greatest speed, So did our Men, heavy in Hotspurres loss, Lend to this weight, such lightness with their Fear, That Arrows fled not swifter toward their aim, Then did our Soldiers (aiming at their safety) Fly from the field. Then was that Noble Worcester Too soon ta'en prisoner: and that furious Scot, (The bloody Dowglas) whose well-labouring sword Had three times slain th' appearance of the King, 'Gan veil his stomach, and did grace the shame Of those that turned their backs: and in his flight, Stumbling in Fear, was took. The sum of all, Is, that the King hath won: and hath sent out A speedy power, to encounter you my Lord, Under the Conduct of young Lancaster And Westmoreland. This is the News at full. For this, I shall have time enough to mourn. In Poison, there is Physic: and this news (Having been well) that would have made me sick, Being sick, have in some measure, made me well. And as the Wretch, whose Feauer-weakned joints, Like strengthless Hinges, buckle under life, Impatient of his Fit, breaks like a fire Out of his keeper's arms: Even so, my Limbs (weakened with grief) being now enraged with grief, Are thrice themselves. Hence therefore thou nice crutch, A scaly Gauntlet now, with joints of Steel Must glove this hand. And hence thou sickly Coif, Thou art a guard too wanton for the head, Which Princes, fleshed with Conquest, aim to hit. Now bind my Brows with Iron, and approach The raggedest hour, that Time and Spite dare bring To frown upon th' enraged Northumberland. Let Heaven kiss Earth: now let not Nature's hand Keep the wild Flood confined: Let Order dye, And let the world no longer be a stage To feed Contention in a lingering Act: But let one spirit of the Firstborn Cain Reign in all bosoms, that each heart being set On bloody Courses, the rude Scene may end, And darkness be the burier of the dead.
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)
Yet for all this, ſay not that Percies dead. I ſee a ſtrange Confeſſion in thine Eye: Thou ſhak'ſt thy head, and hold'ſt it Feare, or Sinne, To ſpeake a truth. If he be ſlaine, ſay ſo: The Tongue offends not, that reports his death: And he doth ſinne that doth belye the dead: Not he, which ſayes the dead is not aliue: Yet the firſt bringer of vnwelcome Newes Hath but a looſing Office: and his Tongue, Sounds euer after as a ſullen Bell Remembred, knolling a departing Friend. I cannot thinke (my Lord) your ſon is dead. I am ſorry, I ſhould force you to beleeue That, which I would to heauen, I had not ſeene. But theſe mine eyes, ſaw him in bloody ſtate, Rend'ring faint quittance (wearied, and out-breath'd) To Henrie Monmouth, whoſe ſwift wrath beate downe The neuer-daunted Percie to the earth, From whence (with life) he neuer more ſprung vp. In few; his death (whoſe ſpirit lent a fire, Euen to the dulleſt Peazant in his Campe) Being bruited once, tooke fire and heate away From the beſt temper'd Courage in his Troopes▪ For from his Mettle, was his Party ſteel'd; Which once, in him abated, all the reſt Turn'd on themſelues, like dull and heauy Lead: And as the Thing, that's heauy in it ſelfe, Vpon enforcement, flyes with greateſt ſpeede, So did our Men, heauy in Hotſpurres loſſe, Lend to this weight, ſuch lightneſſe with their Feare, That Arrowes fled not ſwifter toward their ayme, Then did our Soldiers (ayming at their ſafety) Fly from the field. Then was that Noble Worceſter Too ſoone ta'ne priſoner: and that furious Scot, (The bloody Dowglas) whoſe well-labouring ſword Had three times ſlaine th' appearance of the King, Gan vaile his ſtomacke, and did grace the ſhame Of thoſe that turn'd their backes: and in his flight, Stumbling in Feare, was tooke. The ſumme of all, Is, that the King hath wonne: and hath ſent out A ſpeedy power, to encounter you my Lord, Vnder the Conduct of yong Lancaſter And Weſtmerland. This is the Newes at full. For this, I ſhall haue time enough to mourne. In Poyſon, there is Phyſicke: and this newes (Hauing beene well) that would haue made me ſicke, Being ſicke, haue in ſome meaſure, made me well. And as the Wretch, whoſe Feauer-weakned ioynts▪ Like ſtrengthleſſe Hindges, buckle vnder life, Impatient of his Fit, breakes like a fire Out of his keepers armes: Euen ſo, my Limbes (Weak'ned with greefe) being now inrag'd with greefe, Are thrice themſelues. Hence therefore thou nice crutch, A ſcalie Gauntlet now, with ioynts of Steele Muſt gloue this hand. And hence thou ſickly Quoife, Thou art a guard too wanton for the head, Which Princes, fleſh'd with Conqueſt, ayme to hit. Now binde my Browes with Iron, and approach The ragged'ſt houre, that Time and Spight dare bring To frowne vpon th' enrag'd Northumberland. Let Heauen kiſſe Earth: now let not Natures hand Keepe the wilde Flood confin'd: Let Order dye, And let the world no longer be a ſtage To feede Contention in a ling'ring Act: But let one ſpirit of the Firſt-borne Caine Reigne in all boſomes, that each heart being ſet On bloody Courſes, the rude Scene may end, And darkneſſe be the burier of the dead.