The Trial of Chivalry (This Gallant Cavaliero Dick Bowyer) · chunk 25 of 38
Anonymous · published 1605 · first performed or written 1601 [1599-1604] (Annals) romance · Derby's (Strange's) Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
You did not hear me say 'twas Pembroke, Madam: What is become of him, I do not know, Nor greatly care, since he did wrong my friend, And first enkindled this dissentious brawl. This buried here, is noble Ferdinand, His father's comfort, and his countries hope. Oh Madam! had you seen him as I did, Begirt with wounds, that like so many months, Seemed to complain his timeless overthrow: And had before been inward with his virtues, To think that nature should endure such wrack, And at one time so many precious gifts Perish by death, would have dissolved your heart. He was the very pride of fortitude, The house of virtue, and true friendships mirror: Look on his picture, in the arms of death, When he was ready to give up the ghost, I caused it to be drawn: if at that time, In that extremity of bitter pangs, He looked so lovely, had so fresh a colour, So quick a moving eye, so red a lip, What was his beauty when he was in health? See with what courage he endured the combat, Smiling at death for all his tyranny. Had death been aught but what he was, stern death, He would have been enamoured with his look. A certain soft remorse Creeps to my heart, persuades me he was true, Loving, and virtuous: but myself unkind, Coily to scorn the proffer of his mind. O that in justice of her former hate, She now would hopeless dote on Ferdinand! I'll do the best I can to bring her on: Despair and madness, fetch her off again, Madam, how say you? was't not a grievous thing, So rich a gem, should lie raked up in dust? So sweet a flower, be withered in his prime? Death was a villain for attempting it, And so was Pembroke for effecting it. No bloody Scythian, or inhuman Turk, But would ha' trembled to ha' touched his skin, Or spilled one drop of his Heroic blood. Had not that Lady then an iron heart? A rude ingrateful mind? a savage spirit? That knew this virtuous honourable Knight, This gracious shape, and unmatched excellence, To be entangled with her ferment love, To serve her in all loyalty of heart, To reverence and adore her very name, To be content to kiss the lowly earth, Where she did set her foot: and when he sued For grace, to scorn him, to deride his sighs, And hold his tears and torment in contempt? Of all that ever lived, deserved she not, The world's reproach, and times perpetual blot? Heard you him ever speak of such a one? Oft times: but chiefly then, when he perceived, His hurt was mortal, and no way but death. At every groan, he called upon her name, As if that sound were present remedy? And when insulting death drew short his breath, And now was ready to close up his eyes: Farewell, quoth he, where'er I find a shrine, My soul fly thou to beauteous Katharine.
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)
You did not heare me ſay 'twas Pēbrook, Madam▪ What is become of him, I doe not know, Nor greatly care, ſince he did wrong my friend, And firſt inkindled this diſſenſious brawle. This buryed here, is noble Ferdinand, His fathers comfort, and his Countryes hope. Oh Madam! had you ſeene him as I did, Begirt with wounds, that like ſo many monthes, Seem'd to complayne his timeleſſe ouerthrow: And had before bin inward with his vertues, To thinke that nature ſhould indure ſuch wracke, And at one time ſo many precious gifts Periſh by death, would haue diſſolu'd your heart. He was the very pride of fortitude, The houſe of vertue, and true frendſhips mirrour: Looke on his picture, in the armes of death, When he was ready to giue vp the ghoſt, I cauſde it to be drawne: if at that time, In that extremity of bitter pangs, He lookt ſo louely, had ſo freſh a colour, So quick a mouing eye, ſo red a lip, What was his beauty when he was in health? See with what courage he indur'd the combat, Smiling at death for all his tyranny. Had death bin ought but what he was, ſterne death, He would haue bin enamour'd with his looke. A certayne ſoft remorce Creeps to my heart, perſwades me he was true, Louing, and vertuous: but my ſelfe vnkind, Coyly to ſcorne the proffer of his mind. O that in Iuſtice of her former hate, She now would hopeleſſe do ate on Ferdinand▪ Ile do the beſt I can to bring her on: Deſpaire and madneſſe, fetch her off againe, Madam, how ſay you? waſt not a grieuous thing, So rich a Iem, ſhould lye rak't vp in duſt? So ſweet a flower, be withred in his prime? Death was a villayne for attempting it, And ſo was Pembrooke for effecting it. No bloudy Scythian, or inhumane Turke, But would ha trembled to ha toucht his skin, Or ſpilt one drop of his Heroick bloud. Had not that Lady then an yron heart? A rude ingratefull mind? a ſauadge ſpirit? That knew this vertuous honourable Knight, This gracious ſhape, and vnmatcht excellence, To be intangled with her ferment loue, To ſerue her in all loyalty of heart, To reuerence and adore her very name, To be content to kiſſe the lowly earth, Where ſhe did ſet her foot: and when he ſued For grace, to ſcorne him, to deride his ſighes▪ And hold his teares and torment in contempt▪ Of all that euer liu'd, deſeru'd ſhe not, The worlds reproch, and times perpetuall blot? Heard you him euer ſpeak of ſuch a one? Oft times: but chiefly then, when he perceyu'd, His hurt was mortall, and no way but death. At euery groane, he cald vpon her name, As if that ſound were preſent remedy? And when inſulting death drew ſhort his breath, And now was ready to cloſe vp his eyes: Farewell, quoth he, where e're I find a ſhrine, My ſoule fly thou to beautious Katharine.