The Trial of Chivalry (This Gallant Cavaliero Dick Bowyer) · chunk 1 of 38
Anonymous · published 1605 · first performed or written 1601 [1599-1604] (Annals) romance · Derby's (Strange's) Men unassigned nearest T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea · 491 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
Duke Rodorick, and my noble cousin Flanders: Are your Battalions ready for the charge? Ten thousand men of Orleans I command, And those are bravely marshalled on the plain, Ready to be commanded by your Highness. As many of the warlike brood of Mars Do call me General: those, my gracious Lord, Together with myself I recommend, To be commanded by your Majesty. Thanks, Earl of Flanders, Duke of Orleans, thanks, What lets us that we charge not on the Foe? My Lord of Pembroke, are your Englishmen squadroned with ours, and ready for the charge? The French and English make one warlike body, Whereof your Highness is the moving head: Or peace or war, as pleaseth you direct. Then war, and give the signal through the Host. Navarre, Navarre, submission were more meet, Then to add blood to wrong. What wrong, King Lewes? The Kingdom of Navarre we will acknowledge To hold of none but of the King of Kings. Three hundred years prescriptions on our sides, So long thy Ancestors by fealty Have held thy Kingdom of the Crown of France. Talk not of years, years limit not a Crown, There's no prescription to enthrall a King: He finds it written in the Rolls of time, Nauar's a Kingdom solely absolute, And by collusion of the Kings of France, Because it lies so fitly upon France, The people speaking all one mother tongue, It hath been wrested for a Royalty, Untruly due unto the Crown of France. That Pembroke speaks the truth, behold my sword, Which shall approve my words substantial. Pembroke, you are too plain in your discourse. I tell thee, Roderick, Pembroke soldier-like Hath truly opened, what ten thousand lives Will hardly do, if war be made the judge. If war be judge? why, shallow-witted Bourbon, Who shall decide this difference, but war? Hath not the judge put on his Scarlet rob? Is not the field prepared? our men in armour? The Trumpets ready for the sound of death? And nothing hinders us but our own words? Leave idle parley, my dread sovereign Lord, And soon resolve the Duke in fire and smoke, That he maintains a title false and forged, And that Navarre is a usurping Lord. On that i'll hazard all these valiant lives. Sound Drums and Trumpets, make King Lewes know, He makes his best friend prove his greatest Foe. Why pause our drums? our trumpets, speak as loud, Till the bright air be made a purple cloud. Pause, gracious father. Noble father, pause. Let Ferdinand thy son so far prevail, That peace, not war may end this difference. For Bellamira's sake abstain from war. Philip thy son humbly desires a peace. Let not my father sheath his warlike sword Within the bowels of his Countrymen. Thy daughter Katharina prays the like. From whence proceeds this sudden sound of peace? Comes it from me? what, from my Ferdinand? From Bellamira my sweet second self?
seed 43: T8 · seed 44: T8 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
DVke Rodorick, and my noble cozen Flaunders: Are your Battalions ready for the charge? Ten thouſand men of Orleance I commaund, And thoſe are brauely marſhald on the playn, Ready to be commaunded by your Highneſſe. As many of the warlike brood of Mars Doe call me Generall: thoſe, my gracious Lord, Together with my ſelfe I recommend, To be commaunded by your Maieſty. Thanks, Earle of Flaunders, Duke of Orleance, thanks, What lets vs that we charge not on the Foe? My Lord of Pembrooke, are your Engliſhmen Squadrond with ours, and ready for the charge? The French and Engliſh make one warlike body, Whereof your Highneſſe is the mouing head: Or peace or warre, as pleaſeth you direct. Then war, and giue the ſignall through the Hoſt. Nauar, Nauar, ſubmiſſion were more meete, Then to adde bloud to wrong. What wrong, King Lewes? The Kingdome of Nauar we will acknowledge To hold of none but of the King of Kings. Three hundred yeres preſcriptions on our ſides, So long thy Anceſtors by fealty Haue held thy Kingdome of the Crowne of France. Talke not of yeres, yeres limit not a Crowne, There's no preſcriptions to inthrall a King: He finds it written in the Rowles of time, Nauar's a Kingdome ſolely abſolute, And by colluſion of the Kings of France, Becauſe it lies ſo fitly vpon France, The people ſpeaking all one mother toung, It hath bin wreſted for a Royalty, Vntruly due vnto the Crowne of France. That Pembrook ſpeaks the truth, behold my ſword, Which ſhall approue my words ſubſtantiall. Pembrooke, you are too plaine in your diſcourſe. I tell thee, Rodoricke, Pembrooke ſoldier-like Hath truely opened, what ten thouſand liues Will hardly doe, if warre be made the Iudge. If war be Iudge? why, ſhallow-witted Burbon, Who ſhall decide this difference, but war? Hath not the Iudge put on his Scarlet Robe? Is not the field prepar'd? our men in armour? The Trumpets ready for the ſound of death? And nothing hinders vs but our owne words? Leaue idle parley, my dread ſoueraigne Lord, And ſoone reſolue the Duke in fire and ſmoke, That he maintaines a title falſe and forg'd, And that Nauar is a vſurping Lord. On that ile hazzard all theſe valiant liues. Sound Drums and Trumpets, make King Lewes know, He makes his beſt friend proue his greateſt Foe. Why pauſe our drums? our trūpets, ſpeak as lowd, Till the bright ayre be made a purple cloud. Pauſe, gracious father. Noble father, pauſe. Let Ferdinand thy ſonne ſo far preuayle, That peace, not war may end this difference. For Bellamiraes ſake abſtayne from war. Philip thy ſonne humbly deſires a peace. Let not my father ſheathe his warlike ſword Within the bowels of his Countreymen. Thy daughter Katharina prayes the like. From whence proceeds this ſudden ſound of peace? Comes it from me? what, from my Ferdinand? From Bellamira my ſweet ſecond ſelfe?