The Death of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon (2 Robin Hood) · chunk 13 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 T15 Friars and holy orders in plot · 490 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T15: friar, lord, holy, friars, robin, peggy, lacie, angelo, love, nun.
O must my hands with envious death conspire, To shut the morning gates of my lives light? It is a duty, and thy loves desire, I'll help thee girl to close up Robin's sight. Laments are bootless, tears cannot restore Lost life: Matilda, therefore weep no more. And since our mirth is turned into moan, Our merry sport, to tragic funeral, we will prepare our power for Austria, After earl Robert's timeless burial. Fall to your madsongs therefore yeomen bold, And deck his hearse with flowers, that loved you dear, Dispose his goods, as he hath them disposed. Fitzwater and Matilda, bide you here, See you the body unto Wakefield borne, A little we will bear ye company, But all of us at London point to meet: Thither Fitzwater, bring earl Robin's men: And friar, see you come along with them. Ah my liege Lord, the Friar faints, And hath no words to make complaints: But since he must forsake this place, He will await, and thanks your Grace. Weep, weep, ye woodmen wail, Your hands with sorrow wring: Your master Robin Hood lies dead, Therefore sigh as you sing. Here lies his Primer and his beads, His bent bow and his arrows keen, His good sword and his holy cross, Now cast on flowers fresh and green: And as they fall, shed tears and say, Wella, wella day, wella, wella day: Thus cast ye flowers and sing, And on to Wakefield take your way. Here doth the Friar leave with grievance: Robin is dead, that graced his entrance: And being dead he craves his audience, With this short play, they would have patience. Nay friar, at request of thy kind friend, Let not thy Play so soon be at an end. Though Robin Hood be dead, his yeomen gone, And that thou thinkst there now remains not one, To act another Scene or two for thee: Yet know full well, to please this company, We mean to end Matilda's Tragedy. Off then, I wish you, with your Kendall green: Let not sad grief, in fresh array be seen. Matilda's story is replete with tears, Wrongs, desolations, ruins, deadly fears. In, and attire ye: though I tired be, Yet will I tell my mistress Tragedy. Apollo's master done I invocate: To whom henceforth my deeds I dedicate: That of his Godhead, 'bove all God's divine, With his rich spirit he would lighten mine: That I may sing true lays of trothless deeds, Which to conceive, my heart through sorrow bleeds. Cheer thee, sad soul, and in a lofty line, Thunder out wrong, compassed in cloudy tears. Show to the eyes, fill the beholder's ears, With all the lively acts of lustful rage, Restrained by modest tears, and chastities entreats, And let king Iohn that ill part parsonage, By suits, devices, practices and threats: And when he sees all serveth to no end, Of chaste Matilda let him make an end.
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)
O must my hands with enuious death conspire, To shut the morning gates of my liues light? It is a duetie, and thy loues desire, Ile helpe thee girle to close vp Robins sight. Laments are bootelesse, teares cannot restore Lost life: Matilda, therefore weepe no more. And since our mirth is turned into mone, Our merry sport, to tragick funerall, Wee will prepare our power for Austria, After earle Roberts timelesse buriall. Fall to your wd-songs therefore yeomen bol, And deck his herse with flowers, that lou'd you deare, Dispose his goods, as hee hath them dispos'd. Fitzwater and Matilda, bide you here, See you the bodie vnto Wakefield borne, A little wee will beare yee company, But all of vs at London point to meete: Thither Fitzwater, bring earle Robins men: And Frier, see you come along with them. Ah my liege Lord, the Frier faints, And hath no words to make complaints: But since he must forsake this place, He will awaite, and thanks your Grace. Weepe, weepe, ye wod-men waile, Your hands with sorrow wring: Your master Robin Hood lies deade, Therefore sigh as you sing. Here lies his Primer and his beades, His bent bowe and his arrowes keene, His good sworde and his holy crosse, Now cast on flowers fresh and greene: And as they fall, shed teares and say, Wella, wella day, wella, wella day: Thus cast yee flowers and sing, And on to Wakefield take your way. Here dothe the Frier leaue with grieuance: Robin is deade, that grac't his entrance: And being dead he craues his audience, With this short play, they would haue patience. Nay Fryer, at request of thy kinde friend, Let not thy Play so soone be at an end. Though Robin Hoode be deade, his yeomen gone, And that thou thinkst there now remaines not one, To act an other Sceane or two for thee: Yet knowe full well, to please this company, We meane to end Matildaes Tragedie. Off then, I wish you, with your Kendall greene: Let not sad griefe, in fresh aray be seene. Matildaes storie is repleat with teares, Wrongs, desolations, runs, deadly feares. In, and attire yee: though I tired be, Yet will I tell my mistresse Tragedie. Apolloes master doone I inuocate: To whome henceforth my deedes I dedicate: That of his Godhead, 'boue all Gods diuine, With his rich spirit he would lighten mine: That I may sing true layes of trothlesse deedes, Which to conceiue, my heart through sorrow bleeds. Cheere thee, sad soule, and in a loftie line, Thunder out wrong, compast in clowdy teares. Shewe to the eyes, fill the beholders eares, With all the liuely acts of lustfull rage, Restraind by modest teares, and chastities intreats, And let king Iohn that ill part personage, By sutes, deuices, practices and threats: And when he sees all serueth to no end, Of chaste Matilda let him make an end.