A Larum for London, or The Siege of Antwerp · chunk 18 of 25
Anonymous · published 1602 · first performed or written 1599 [c.1594-1600] (Annals) history · Lord Chamberlain's (Hunsdon's) Men unassigned nearest T50 Fleets, armies and generals: war by sea · 498 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
O kill us not, we'll hang upon your arms, Sweet Gaffer, stay and look me in the face, Have you the heart to kill a pretty Girl? Good Master Spaniard do not kill us, Take any thing we have, but save our lives. How the young brats cling about our swords? Zounds, dash out their brains. Where are my children? Martin, Lenchy speak, I heard you cry speak pretty souls, where are you? Husband, Harman, whether will you go? Alas you fall into the enemy's hands For lack of sight. My children wife, my children, where are they? Here you blind traitor, whether you shall go, To your throat-cutting. Here Father, here, alas we shall be killed. O my sweet children, Out you Brabant bitch, think you with whining To preserve your whelps? O spare the infants, and the aged blind, These have not might, nor power to do you hurt. Cut all their throats. Kill us, but let our little children live. Help mother help, or else we shall be killed. Hard hearted Soldiers, where have you been bred? Get honour on the proud resisting foe, myself have been a Soldier as you are, Now blind with age: Old men, weak women, and poor wretched infants, Should be respected in the heat of slaughter. O do not this foul injury to arms; Let my poor Babies lead me to my grave, Where are you my poor children? Father, here. Where art thou Lenchy? Here poor Father. Old as I am, and I have told this town; That you should sack it, I did prophesy. Then Prophet, didst thou prophesy of this? Ah bloody Spaniard, that hast slain my children. Bitch, art thou railing? take thou this. And this, Get you together with your damned brats. O cruel Spaniard that dost spare no age nor sex, Where art thou wife, and my poor little children? Their blessed souls in Abraham's bosom rests, Their bodies lie betwixt thyself and me, By whom these pretty wretches were begot, O let me join my freezing lips to thine, Now farewell Antwerp, say not we did fly, Where with thy fall, old, young, and all must die. Think ye to purchase freedom at this rate? Some thriftless prodigal bestows in wine, Or spends in dalliance on his Courtesan, Five thousand crowns: be't like your store affords No greater plenty? either from your chests, That swell with surfeit of your avarice, Rain down a larger shower of fruitful gold, Or tender flowering pity, near will spring. I do protest (my Lord) beside our Plate, And household furniture, this is the sum, Of all the wealth, at this time may be found Within the English-house. And is not plate Good boot for Soldiers? have you that And dare ye yet plead needy poverty? Go fetch it me, or presently I'll send A crew of such sharp carvers to your gate, As shall anatomize your panting hearts, To fill their conquering hands with wished spoils.
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 kill vs not, wee'll hang vpon your armes, Sweet Gaffer, stay and looke me in the face, Haue you the heart to kill a prettie Girle? Good Master Spaniard doe not kill vs, Take any thing we haue, but saue our liues. How the young brattes cling about our swords? Zwounds, dash out their braines. Where are my children? Martin, Lenchy speake, I heard you cry speake prettie soules, where are you? Husband, Harman, whether will you goe? Alas you fall into the enemies hands For lacke of sight. My children wife, my children, where are they? Heere you blind traytor, whether you shall go, To your throate-cutting. Heere Father, heere, alas we shall be kild. O my sweet children, Out you Brabant bitch, thinke you with whining To preserue your whelpes? O spare the infants▪ and the aged blinde, These haue not might, nor power to doe you hurt. Cut all their throates. Kill vs, but let our little children liue. Helpe mother helpe, or else we shall be kild. Hard harted Soldiers, where haue you bin bred? Get honour on the proude resisting foe, My selfe haue bin a Soldier as you are, Now blinde with age: Olde men, weake women, and poore wretched infants, Should be respected in the heate of slaughter. O doe not this foule iniurie to armes; Let my poore Babies leade me to my graue, Where are you my poore children? Father, heere. Where art thou Lenchy? Heere poore Father. Olde as I am, and I haue tolde this towne; That you should sacke it, I did prophesie. Then Prophet, didst thou prophesie of this? Ah bloudie Spaniard, that hast slaine my children. Bitch, art thou rayling? take thou this. And this, Get you together with your damned brats. O cruel Spaniard that dost spare no age nor sexe, Where art thou wife, and my poore little children? Their blessed soules in Abrahams bosome restes, Their bodies lye betwixt thy selfe and me, By whome these prettie wretches were begot, O let me ioyne my freezing lips to thine, Now farewell Antwerpe, say not we did flye, Where with thy fall, olde, yong, and all must dye. Thinke yee to purchase freedome at this rate? Some thriftles prodigall bestowes in wine, Or spends in dalliance on his Curtizan, Fiue thousand crownes: like your store affoords No greater plentie▪ eyther from your chestes, That swell with surfet of your auarice, Raine downe a larger shewer of fruitfull golde, Or tender flowring pittie, nere will spring. I doe protest (my Lord) beside our Plate, And housholde furniture, this is the summe, Of all the wealth, at this time may be found Within the English-house. And is not plate Good boote for Soldiers? haue you that And dare yee yet pleade needie pouertie? Goe fetch it me, or presentlie Ile send A crew of such sharpe caruers to your gate, As shall anotamize your panting hearts, To fill their conquering hands with wished spoiles.