The Death of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon (2 Robin Hood) · chunk 4 of 44
Munday, Anthony / Chettle, Henry · published 1601 · first performed or written 1598 [Feb 20-Mar 8, payment] (Annals) tragedy · Admiral's (Nottingham's) Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 497 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
And you shall, Conscience. O forgive me, God, And save my master from their bloody hands. What, hast thou made him sure? Its dead sure: he is dead, if that be sure. Then let us thrust the dagger in his hand, And when the next comes, cry he killed himself. That must be now: yonder comes Robin Hood. No life in him. No, no, not any life. Three mortal wounds have let in piercing air, And at their gaps, his life is clean let out. Who is it uncle that you so bemoan? Warman, good nephew, whom sir Doncaster & I Found freshly bleeding, as he now doth lie. You were scarce gone, when he did stab himself. O God, he in his own hand holds his own hearts hurt, I dreaded too much his distressed look: Belike the wretch despaired, and slew himself. Nay, that's most sure, yet he had little reason, Considering how well you used him. Well, I am sorry; but must not be sad, Because the King is coming to my bower. Help me, I pray thee, to remove his body, lest he should come and see him murdered. Sometime anon he shall be buried. Good, all is good: this is as I desire. Now for a face of pure hypocrisy: Sweet murder, cloth thee in religious weeds, Reign in my bosom, that with help of thee, I may effect this Robin's Tragedy. Nay, nay, you must not take this thing so heavily. A Body's loss, sir Doncaster, is much: But a soul's too, is more to be bemoaned. Truly I wonder at your virtuous mind: O God to one so kind, who'd be unkind? Let go this grief, now must you put on joy, And for the many favours I have found, So much exceeding all conceit of mine, Unto your cheer, I'll add a precious drink, Of colour rich, and red, sent me from Rome. There's in it Moly, Syrian Balsamum, Golds rich elixir: O 'tis precious! Where is it uncle? As yesterday, Sir Doncaster and I rid on our way, Thieves did beset us, bound us as you saw: And among other things, did take from me, This rich confection: but regardlessly, As common drink, they cast, into a bush, The bottle, which this day sir Doncaster Fetched, and hath left it in the inner lodging: I tell you cousin (I do love you well) A pint of this ransomed the Sophy's son, When he was taken in Natolia. I meant indeed to give it my liege Lord, In hope to have his favour: but to you I put myself, be my good friend, And, in your own restoring, me restore. Uncle I will, you need urge that no more. But what's the virtues of this precious drink? It keeps fresh youth, restores diseased sight, Helps nature's weakness, smooths the scars of wounds, And cools the entrails with a balmy breath, When they by thirst or travel boil with heat.
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)
And you shall, Conscience. O forgiue mee, God, And saue my master from their bloodie hands. What, hast thou made him sure? Its deade sure: he is dead, if that be sure. Then let vs thrust the dagger in his hand, And when the next comes, cry he kild himselfe. That must be now: yonder comes Robin Hood. No life in him. No, no, not any life. Three mortall wounds haue let in piercing ayre, And at their gaps, his life is cleane let out. Who is it vncle that you so bemone? Warman, good nephew, whom sir Doncaster & I Found freshly bleeding, as he now doth lye. You were scarce gone, when he did stab himselfe. O God, he in his own hand houlds his own harts hurt, I dreaded too much his distressed looke: Belike the wretch despaird, and slewe himselfe. Nay, thats most sure, yet he had little reason, Considering how well you vsed him. Well, I am sorie; but must not be sad, Because the King is comming to my bower. Helpe mee, I pray thee, to remooue his bodie, Least he should come and see him murdered. Sometime anone he shall be buried. Good, all is good: this is as I desire. Now for a face of pure hypocrisie: Sweete murder, cloath thee in religious weedes, Raigne in my bosome, that with helpe of thee, I may effect this Robins Tragedie. Nay, nay, you must not take this thing so heauily. A bodies losse, sir Doncaster, is much: But a soules too, is more to be bemon'd. Truly I wonder at your vertuous minde: O God to one so kinde, who'ud be vnkinde? Let goe this griefe, now must you put on ioy, And for the many fauours I haue found, So much exceeding all conceipt of mine, Unto your cheere, Ile adde a pretious drinke, Of colour rich, and red, sent mee from Rome▪ There's in it Moly, Syrian Balsamum, Golds rich Elixer: O tis pretious! Where is it vncle? As yesterday, Sir Doncaster and I rid on our way, Theeues did beset vs, bound vs as you saw: And among other things, did take from mee, This rich confection: but regardlesly, As common drinke, they cast, into a bush, The bottle, which this day sir Doncaster Fetcht, and hath left it in the inner lodging: I tell you cosin (I doe loue you well) A pint of this ransomde the Sophies sonne, When he was taken in Natolia. I meant indeede to giue it my liege Lord, In hope to haue his fauour: but to you I put my selfe, be my good friend, And, in your owne restoring, mee restore. Unkle I will, you neede vrge that no more. But whats the vertues of this pretious drinke? It keepes fresh youth, restores diseased sight, Helps natures weakenesse, smothes the scars of woūds, And cooles the intrals with a balmie breath, When they by thirst or trauell boyle with heate.