The Trial of Chivalry (This Gallant Cavaliero Dick Bowyer) · chunk 32 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 · 482 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
Why, the heat's great, It burns in our Armour as we march. It burns the enemy as well as we. It warms our Soldiers spirits & makes them fire: I had rather die, then when my blood is hot, Be awed by counsel, till it freeze like Ice: He is no Soldier, that for fear of heat, Will suffer victory to fly the field. My Lord of Bourbon, ye are more hot than wise. Rodorick, methinks you are very peremptory. It is in zeal of the general good: Go to your Tent, refresh your unscorched limbs: There draw your battles model: and as soon As the cool winds have found the burning Sun, And made it tractable for travailers: Arm you, and mount upon your barbed Steed, Lead forth your Soldiers, and in good array, Charge bravely on the Army of our foe. The Duke of Orleans hath counselled well, I'll in and recreate me in my Tent. Farewell, my Lord, when you resolve to fight, Proclaim your meaning by a canon's mouth, And with a volley I will answer you. If you will needs retire, farewell my Lord. Ha Roderick, are not we fine politicians, That have so quaintly wrought the King of France Unto our faction, that he threatens war, Against the almost reconciled Navarre? But this is nothing to the acts we'll do: Come, come, my Lord, you trifle time with words: Sit down, sit down, and make your warlike plot: But wherefore stand these murderous Glaves so nigh? Touch them not, Rodorick, prithee let them stand. Some paper, pen, and ink. My Lord. Post to the Master Gunner, And bid him plant his demi culverings Against the king's pavilion. Presently. But first, bring pen and ink and paper straight. Roderick, thou shalt assist me in this plot. Do it yourself, my Lord, I have a charge Of Soldiers, that are very mutinous, And long I dare not stay, for fear my absence Be cause of their revolt unto Navar. Then to your Soldiers: I will to my plot. Away my Lord, leave me unto the Duke. Kill you the Duke, and after I'll kill thee. This pen is stabbed, and it will not write, The Ink that's in the Standage doth look black, This in my pen is turned as red as blood. The reason that the platform you would make, Must by this hand be written with thy blood. Zounds, what art thou that threatens Bourbon so? One that's as desperate-careless of his life, As thou art timorous, and fearest to die. Comest thou to kill me? If I should say no, This weapon would condemn me, which I seized Of purpose, Bourbon, to bereave thy life. Why, fond man, mad man, know'st thou what thou dost? I know it, Bourbon, and I know beside, What thou wouldst say, to daunt my resolution. What would I say?
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)
Why, the heat's great, It burnes in our Armour as we march. It burnes the enemy as well as wee. It warmes our Souldiers ſpirits & makes them fire: I had rather dye, then when my bloud is hot, Be awde by counſell, till it freeze like Ice: He is no Souldier, that for feare of heat, Will ſuffer victory to fly the field. My Lord of Burbon, ye are more hot then wiſe. Rodorick, me thinkes you are very peremptory. It is in zeale of the generall good: Go to your Tent, refreſh your vnſcorcht lymmes: There draw your battels modell: and as ſoone As the coole winds haue fand the burning Sunne, And made it tractable for trauaylers: Arme you, and mount vpon your barbed Steed, Lead foorth your Souldiers, and in good array, Charge brauely on the Army of our foe. The Duke of Orleance hath counſeld well, Ile in and recreate me in my Tent. Farewell, my Lord, when you reſolue to fight, Proclayme your meaning by a Canons mouth, And with a volley I will anſwere you. If you will needs retyre, farewell my Lord. Ha Rodoricke, are not we fine Polyticians, That haue ſo quaintly wrought the King of Fraunce Vnto our faction, that he threatens warre, Againſt the almoſt reconcilde Nauar? But this is nothing to the actes weele do: Come, come, my Lord, you trifle time with words: Sit downe, ſit downe, and make your warlike plot: But wherfore ſtand theſe murdrous Glaues ſo nye? Touch them not, Rodorick, prythee let them ſtand. Some paper, pen, and incke. My Lord. Poſt to the Maſter Gunner, And bid him plant his demy culuerings Againſt the kings pauilion. Preſently. But firſt, bring pen and incke and paper ſtraight. Rodoricke, thou ſhalt aſsiſt mee in this plot. Do it your ſelfe, my Lord, I haue a charge Of Souldiers, that are very mutinous, And long I dare not ſtay, for feare my abſence Be cauſe of their reuolt vnto Nauar. Then to your Souldiers: I will to my plot. Away my Lord, leaue me vnto the Duke. Kill you the Duke, and after Ile kill thee. This pen is ſtabbed, and it will not write, The Incke that's in the Standage doth looke blacke, This in my pen is turnd as red as bloud. The reaſon that the platforme you would make, Muſt by this hand be written with thy bloud. Zounds, what art thou that threatens Burbon ſo? One that's as deſperat-careleſſe of his life, As thou art timerous, and fearſt to dye. Comeſt thou to kill me? If I ſhould ſay no, This weapon would condemne me, which I ſeyz'd Of purpoſe, Burbon, to bereaue thy life. Why, fond man, mad man, know'ſt thou what thou doeſt? I know it, Burbon, and I know beſides, What thou wouldſt ſay, to daunt my reſolution. What would I ſay?