A Larum for London, or The Siege of Antwerp · chunk 17 of 25
Anonymous · published 1602 · first performed or written 1599 [c.1594-1600] (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 489 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
It is impossible to pass the streets, They are so pestered with this brainsick crew: And hark my Lord, except you mount be time, (The clamorous tumult draws so near this place,) Both you and we shall be surprised by them. Is there no Fortress near, nor house of strength, Where I may leave my Love, till this black cloud, Of swollen Hostility be overblown? Not any (good my Lord) lead on your troops. Then rather than another shall enjoy, What Danila held esteemed in his eye, Here it began, and here my love shall die. Another Stab her Father, both combined, By nature's laws, by nature's law shall end. Yet is not Antwerp quite bereft of life, So long as we two breath, to stand for her, Nor shall her ransack pass, without some right Of just revenge: witness this last assault, Wherein the Scales of justice have been filled, With (at the least) a hundred Spaniards lives, That thought their victory to be secure. But who are these? a Burger, and with him His tender daughter, having both sustained The heavy stroke of death? I knew them well. They were my neighbours, near unto the Burse. Had these grey hairs retained the reverent worth Of grave experience, as they might have done; And had you been more rich in inward gifts, And less magnificent in outward show, Then had you lived, to die a natural death: And you to see some of his honoured years. But pride and luxury, have ever been, The gate of misery, and nurse of sin: Yet though you me contemned, I grieve your fall, And will in pity, give you burial. Alas poor Lenchy, whether shall we go: I cannot tell; come Martin let us hide us. Where is my Father? He is in our house. Let us go thither? All the street is full of Spaniards; they have killed Little Maria, and Hans Vanderbrooke. Ah whether shall we go? Let's hide us here, no Spaniard will come hither. Nay M. Hulders Orchard is hard by. we'll get in there, and hid's among the trees, Come let us run. Alas the Spaniard's coming, what shall we do? Alas poor Martin we shall both be killed. Alas poor Lenchy, kiss me pretty Sister, Now we must die. Let's sit down here, and Mart. I will clip thee in Mine arms, they shall not see thee. But they will kill thee, Alas where is my poor old Father now, and my poor mother? Kill, kill, kill. Tue, Tue, Tue, Tue. Fuora villiaco. Follow, follow, follow, follow. I pray you M. Spaniard hurt us not, We are poor children, we have done no harm. Good Gaffer do not kill my little brother. Fuora villiaco, sa, sa, sa, sa, Ah Master Spaniard do not kill my Sister, My father is a poor blind man, and he will die, If you kill her. Cut the Bastard's throats.
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)
It is impossible to passe the streetes, They are so pesterd with this brainsicke : And harke my Lord, except you mount be time, (The clamorous tumult drawes so neere this place,) Both you and we shall be surpriz'd by them. Is there no Fortresse neere, nor house of strength, Where I may leaue my Loue, till this blacke cloude, Of swolne Hostilitie be ouer-blowne? Not any (good my Lord) leade on your troopes. Then rather than another shall inioy, What Danila held esteemed in his eye, Heere it began, and heere my loue shall dye. Another Stab her Father, both combinde, By natures lawes, by natures law shall end. Yet is not Antwerpe quite bereft of life, So long as we two breath, to stand for her, Nor shall her ransacke passe, without some right Of iust reuenge: witnes this last assault, Wherein the Scales of Iustice haue been fill'd, With (at the least) a hundred Spaniards liues, That thought their victorie to be secure. But who are these? a Burger, and with him His tender daughter, hauing both sustain'd The heauy stroake of death? I knew them well. They were my neighbors, nere vnto the Buse. Had these gray hayres retain'd the reuerent worth Of graue experience, as they might haue done; And had you bin more rich in inward giftes, And lesse magnificent in outward shew, Then had you liu'd, to dye a naturall death: And you to see some of his honor'd yeeres. But pride and luxury, haue euer been, The gate of miserie, and nurse of sinne: Yet though you me contemn'd, I grieue your fall, And will in pitty, giue you buriall. Alas poore Lenchy, whether shall we goe: I cannot tell; come Martin let vs hide vs. Where is my Father? He is in our house. Let vs goe thether? All the streete is full of Spaniards; they haue kil'd Little Maria, and Hans Vanderbrooke. Ah whether shall we goe? Let's hide vs heere, no Spaniard wil come hether. Nay M. Hulders Orchard is hard by. Wee'll get in there, and hyd's among the trees, Come let vs run. Alas the Spaniard's comming, what shal we doe? Alas poore Martin we shall both be kil'd. Alas poore Lenchy, kisse me prettie Sister, Now we must dye. Let's sit downe heere, and Mart. I wil clip thee in Mine armes, they shall not see thee. But they will kill thee, Alas where is my poore old Father now, and my poor mother? Kill, kill, kill. Tue, Tue, Tue, Tue. Fuora villiaco. Follow, follow, follow, follow. I pray you M. Spaniard hurt vs not, We are poore children, we haue done no harme. Good Gaffer doe not kill my little brother. Fuora villiaco, sa, sa, sa, sa, Ah Master Spaniard doe not kill my Sister, My father is a poore blinde man, and he will dye, If you kill her. Cut the Bastards throates.