The Death of Robert, Earl of Huntingdon (2 Robin Hood) · chunk 42 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 · 528 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
O my Lord God! I never knew a subject love king more: She never would blind telling how his Grace Saved her young son from soldiers, & from fire: How fair he spoke, gave her her son to keep: And then, poor Lady, she would kiss her boy, Pray for the king so hearty earnestly, That in pure zeal, she wept most bitterly. I weep for her, and do by heaven protest, I honoured Bruses wife. howe'er that slave Rudely effected what I rashly wild: Yet when he came again, and I bethought, What bitter penance I had put them to, For my conceived displeasure 'gainst old Bruse, I had the villain post and bear them meat: Which he excused, protesting pity moved him To leave wine, bread, and other powdered meat, More than they twain could in a fortnight eat. Indeed, this can I witness with the king, Which argues in that point his innocence: Brand did bear in a month's provision; But locked it like a villain, far from them: And locked them in a place where no man's ear Might hear their lamentable woeful moves: For all the issue both of vent and light, Came from a louvre at the tower's top, Till now Lord Bruise made open this wide gap. Had I not reason, think you, to make wide The window that should let so much woe forth? Where sits my mother martyred by herself, Hoping to save her child from martyrdom: Where stands my brother martyred by himself, Because he would not taste his mother's blood. For thus I gather this? my mother's teeth and chin Are bloody with the savage cookery, Which her soft heart, through pity of her son, Respectless, made her practice on herself: And her right hand, with offering it the child, Is with her own pure blood stained and defiled, My little brother's lips and chin, alone, Are tainted with the blood: but his even teeth, Like orient pearl, or snow-white ivory, Have not one touch of blood, one little spot: Which is an argument the boy would not. Once stir his lips, to taste that bloody food, Our cruel gentle mother ministered: But as it seemed (for see, his pretty Palm is bloody too) he cast it on the ground: For on this side these blessed relics lie, By famine's rage divided from this shrine, Sad woeful mother in Ierusalem, Who when thy son and thou didst faint for food, Buried his sweet flesh in thy hungry womb: How merciless wert thou, if we compare Thy fact and this: For my poor Lady mother Did kill herself, to save my dying brother. And thou ungentle son of Miriam, Why didst thou beg life when thy mother lacked? My little brother George did nobly act A more courageous part; he would not eat, Nor beg to live, it seemed he did not cry: Few tears stand on his cheek, smooth is each eye: But when he saw my mother bent to die, He died with her: O childish valiancy! Good Bruse have done: my heart can not contain The grief it holds, my eyes must shower down rain.
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 my Lord God! I neuer knewe a subiect loue king more: She neuer would blin telling how his Grace Sau'd her young sonne from souldiers, & from fire▪ How faire he spake, gaue her her sonne to keepe: And then, poore Ladie, she would kisse her boy, Pray for the king so hearty earnestly, That in pure zeale, she wept most bitterly▪ I weepe for her, and doe by heauen protest, I honour'd Bruses wife▪ How ere that slaue Rudely effected what I rashly wild: Yet when he came againe, and I bethought, What bitter pennance I had put them to, For my conceiu'd displeasure gainst old Bruse, I had the villaine poste and beare them meat: Which he excus'd, protesting pittie mou'd him To leaue wine, bread, and other poudred meate, More than they twaine could in a fortnight eate. Indeede, this can I witnesse with the king, Which argues in that point his innocence: Brand did beare in a months prouision; But lockt it like a villaine, farre from them: And lockt them in a place where no mans eare Might heare their lamentable wofull moues: For all the issue both of vent and light, Came from a loouer at the towers toppe, Till now Lord Bruse made open this wide gappe. Had I not reason, thinke you, to make wide The windowe that should let so much woe forth? Where sits my mother martyrde by her selfe, Hoping to saue her childe from martyrdome: Where stands my brother martyrd by himselfe, Because he would not taste his mothers bloud. For thus I gather this? my mothers teeth and chin Are bloudy with the sauage cookery, Which her soft heart, through pittie of her sonne, Respectlesse, made her practise on her selfe: And her right hand, with offring it the child, Is with her owne pure bloud staind and defilde, My little brothers lips and chin, alone, Are tainted with the bloud: but his eauen teeth, Like orient pearle, or snowe-white yuory, Haue not one touch of bloud, one little spot: Which is an argument the boy would not. Once stir his lips, to taste that bloudy foode, Our cruell gentle mother ministred: But as it seem'd (for see, his prettie Palme is bloody too) he cast it on the ground: For on this side these blessed reliques lye, By famines rage diuided from this shrine, Sad wofull mother in Ierusalem, Who when thy sonne and thou didst faint for foode, Buryed his sweete flesh in thy hungry wombe: How mercilesse wert thou, if we compare Thy fact and this: For my poore Ladie mother Did kill her selfe, to saue my dying brother. And thou vngentle sonne of Miriam, Why didst thou beg life when thy mother lackt? My little brother George did nobly act A more couragious part; he would not eat, Nor beg to liue, it seem'd he did not cry: Fewe teares stand on his cheeke, smooth is each eye: But when he sawe my mother bent to die, He dyed with her: O childish valiancie! Good Brufe haue done: my heart can not containe The griefe it holds, my eyes must shoure down rai.