The Death of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon (2 Robin Hood) · chunk 40 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 · 491 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Will not my bitter bannings and sad plaints, My just and execrable execrations, My tears, my prayers, my pity-moving moans Prevail, thou glorious bright Lamp of the day, To cause thee keep an obit for their souls, And dwell one month with the Antipodes? Bright sun retire, gild not this vault of death, With thy illustrate rays: retire, retire, And yield black night thy Empery a while: A little while, till as my tears be spent, My blood be likewise shed in raining drops, By the tempestuous rage of tyrant Iohn. Learn of thy love, the morning: she hath wept, Shower upon shower, of silver dewy tears. High trees, low plants, and pretty little flowers Witness her woe: on them her grief appears: And as she drips on them, they do not let, By drop and drop, their mother earth to wet. See these hard stones, how fast small rouelets Issue from them, though they seem issueless: And wet eyed woe on every thing is viewed: Save in thy face that smil'st at my distress. O do not drink their tears thus greedily: Yet let the morning's mourning garment dwell Upon the sad earth. Wilt thou not, thou churl? Then surfeit with thy exhalations speedily: For all earth's venomous infecting worms Have belched their several poisons on the fields, Mixing their simples in thy compound draft. Well Phoebus well, drink on I say, drink on: But when thou dost ungorge thee, grant me this, Thou power those poisons on the head of Iohn. How now my Lords: were ye last night so pleased With the beholding of that property, Which Iohn and other murderers have wrought, Upon my starved mother and her son: That you are come again? Shall I again Set open shop, show my dead ware, dear bought, Of a relentless merchant that doth trade On the red sea, swollen mighty with the blood Of noble, virtuous, harmless innocents? Whose coal black vessel is of Ebony, Their shrouds & tackle (wrought & woven by wrong) Stretched with no other gale of wind, but grief: Whose sighs with full blasts beateth on her shrouds: The Master murder is, the Pilot shame, The mariner's rape, theft, and perjury: The burden, tyrannous oppression, Which hourly he in England doth unlade: Say, shall I open shop, and show my wares? No, good Lord Bruise, we have enough of that. To Windsor welcome, Hubert. Soft: methinks Bruise and our Lords are at a parley now? Chester and Mowbray, you are John's sworn friends: Will you see more? Speak, answer me my Lords: I am no niggard, you shall have your fill. We have too much, and surfeit with the woe. Are you all full? Here comes a ravening kite, That both at quick, at dead, at all will smite. He shall, he must, ay, and by'r Lady, may Command me to give over holy day, And set wide open, what you would not see.
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)
Will not my bitter bannings and sad plaints, My iust and execrable execrations, My teares, my prayers, my pittie-mouing mones Preuaile, thou glorious bright Lampe of the day, To cause thee keepe an bit for their soules, And dwell one month with the Antipodes? Bright sunne retire, gylde not this vault of death, With thy illustrate raies: retyre, retyre, And yield black night thy Empery a while: A little while, till as my teares be spent, My bloode be likewise shed in raining drops, By the tempestuous rage of tyrant Iohn. Learne of thy loue, the morning: she hath wept, Shower vpon shower, of siluer deawie teares. High trees, lowe plants, and prettie little flowers Witnesse her woe: on them her griefe appeares: And as shee drepes on them, they doe not let, By droppe and droppe, their mother earth to wet. See these hard stones, how fast small rouelets Issue from them, though they seeme issuelesse: And wet eyed woe on euery thing is viewde: Saue in thy face that smil'st at my distresse. O doe not drinke their teares thus greedily: Yet let the mornings mourning garment dwell Upon the sad earth. Wilt thou not, thou churle? Then surfet with thy exhalations speedily: For all earths venemous infecting wormes Haue belcht their seuerall poysons on the fields, Mixing their simples in thy compound draught. Well Phoebus well, drinke on I say, drinke on: But when thou dost vngorge thee, grant me this, Thou power those poysons on the head of Iohn. How now my Lords: were ye last night so pleasd With the beholding of that propertie, Which Iohn and other murderers haue wrought, Upon my starued mother and her sonne: That you are come againe? Shall I againe Set open shop, shew my dead ware, deare bought, Of a relentlesse merchant that doth trade On the red sea, swolne mightie with the bloud Of noble, vertuous, harmelesse innocents? Whose cole black vessell is of Ebonie, Their shrouds & tackle (wrought & wou'n by wrong) Stretcht with no other gale of winde, but griefe: Whose sighes with full blasts beateth on her shrouds: The Master murder is, the Pilot shame, The Mariners rape, theft, and periury: The burden, tyrannous oppression, Which howerly he in England doth vnlade: Say, shall I open shop, and shewe my wares? No, good Lord Bruse, we haue enough of that. To Windsor welcome, Hubert Soft: me thinks Bruse and our Lords are at a parly now? Chester and Mowbray, you are Iohns sworn friends▪ Will you see more? Speake, answere me my Lords: I am no nig gard, you shall haue your fill. We haue too much, and surfet with the woe. Are you all full? Here comes a rauening kite, That both at quick, at deade, at all will smite. He shall, he must, I, and bir Lady, may Commaund me to giue ouer holy day, And set wide open, what you would not see.