The Death of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon (2 Robin Hood) · chunk 25 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 T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho · 476 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
I come. You shall not go: sound drums to war. Alack, alack for woe: well God for us, sith it will needs be so, What stay you for? Matilda's cries do stay us. Oxford, I come in hope of thy defence. First will I die, ere you shall yield yourself, To any coward Lord that serves the King. Coward proud boy? thou findest me no such beast, And thou shalt rue in earnest this rude jest. Rude hands, how hale you virtuous honour forth? You do not well: away: now by my faith, Ye do not well I say. Take her, fair Queen, use her as she deserves: she's fair, she's noble, chaste, and debonair. I must, according to due course of war, See that our soldiers scatter not too fare, lest what care won, our negligence mray lose. Is this the Helen, this the Paragon, That makes the English Ilinnus flame so fast? I am not she, you see I am not she: I am not ravished yet, as Helen was, I know not what will come of John's desire, That rages like the sea, that burns like fire. Plain Iohn, proud Joan? I'll tear your painted. face: thus, thus I'll use you. Do, do. what you will. How goes this gear? ha? foul fall so foul a deed, Poor chaste child of Fitzwater dost thou bleed. By God's blessed mother this is more than need: And more I tell you true than I would bear, Were not the danger of the camp so near. My Lord, the foes have gathered head: Lord Bruise the father, joineth with the son. Why here's the matter, we must spend our time, To keep your nails from scratching innocence, Which should have been bestowed for our defence. What shall we now do! help me holy God, The foe is come, and we are out of rank. Is the field ours: ay, thanks to noble Lester. Give God thanks, son, be careful to thy mother: Commend me to Fitzwater, love thy brother, If either arms, or prayers may him recover. How cheers old Bruse? His soul to joy is fled: His grief is in my bosom buried. His life was dearly bought. For my eyes saw A shambles of dead men about his feet, Sent by his sword unto eternal shade: With honour bury him: cease tears good Bruse. Tears help not I confess: yet must I weep. soldiers, your help to bear him to my tent. Be comforted great Queen: forget my wrongs. It was my fortune and no fault of yours. Is she thus mild? or doth she mock my chance? Queen Elianor, are you a prisoner? See what it is to be a soldier. But what foul hand hath harmed Matilda's fair? Speak honourable maid: who tore thy hair? Did Oxford or the Queen this violence?
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)
I come. You shall not goe: sound drums to warre. Alack, alack for woe: well God for vs, sith it will needes be so, What stay you for? Matildaes cryes doe stay vs. Oxford, I come in hope of thy defence. First will I die, ere you shall yield your selfe, To any coward Lord that serues the King. Coward proud boy? thou findest me no such beast, And thou shalt rue in earnest this rude iest. Rude hands, how hale you vertuous honour forth? You doe not well: away: now by my faith, Yee doe not well I say. Take her, faire Queene, vse her as she deserues: Shees faire, shees noble, chast, and debonaire. I must, according to due course of warre, See that our souldiers scatter not too fare, Least what care wonne, our negligence mray loose. Is this the Helen, this the Paragon, That makes the English Ilinnus flame so fast? I am not she, you see I am not shee: I am not rauisht yet, as Helen was, I know not what will come of Iohns desire, That rages like the sea, that burnes like fire. Plaine Iohn, proud Ione? Ile teare your painted. face: thus, thus Ile vse you. Doe, doe. what you will. How goes this geere? ha? foule fall so foule a deed, Poore chast childe of Fitzwater dost thou bleede. By Gods blest mother this is more than neede: And more I tell you true than I would beare, Were not the danger of the campe so neere. My Lord, the foes haue gathered head: Lord Bruse the father, ioyneth with the sonne. Why heres the matter, we must spend our time, To keepe your nailes from scratching innocence, Which should haue beene bestowed for our defence. What shall we now doe! helpe me holy God, The foe is come, and we are out of ranke. Is the field ours: I, thanks to noble Lester. Giue God thanks, sonne, be carefull to thy mother: Commend me to Fitzwater, loue thy brother, If either armes, or praiers may him recouer. How cheeres old Bruse? His soule to ioy is fled: His grife is in my bosome buried. His life was dearely bought. For my eyes sawe A shambles of dead men about his feete, Sent by his sword vnto eternall shade: With honour bury him: cease teares good Bruse. Teares helpe not I confesse: yet must I weepe. Souldiers, your helpe to beare him to my tent. Be comforted great Queene: forget my wrongs. It was my fortune and no fault of yours. Is she thus milde? or doth she mock my chance? Queene Elianor, are you a prisoner? See what it is to be a souldier. But what foule hand hath harm'd Matildaes faire? Speake honourable maid: who tore thy haire? Did Oxford or the Queene this violence?