The Famous History of Sir Thomas Wyatt · chunk 13 of 22
Heywood, Thomas / Dekker, Thomas / Chettle, Henry / Webster, John · published 1607 · first performed or written 1602 (Annals) history · Worcester's Men unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 505 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
And ere he land in England, I will offer My loyal breast for him to tread upon. O who so forward Wyatt as thyself, To raise this troublesome Queen in this her Throne? Philip is a Spaniard, a proud Nation, Whom naturally our Country men abhor. Assist me gracious heavens, and you shall see What hate I bear unto their Slavery. I'll into Kent, there muster up my friends, To save this Country, and this Realm defend. God morrow to the Patron of my woe. God morrow to my Lord, my lovely Dudley. Why do you look so sad my dearest Lord? Nay why doth Iane, thus with a heavy eye, And a defected look, salute the day? Sorrow doth ill become thy silver brow, Sad grief lies dead, so long as thou lives fair, In my Ianes joy, I do not care for care. My looks (my love) is sorted with my heart, The Sun himself, doth scantly show his face, Out of this firm grate, you may perceive the Tower-Hill Thronged with store of people, As if they gaped for some strange Novelty. Though sleep do seldom dwéll in men of care, Yet I did this night sleep, and this night dreamt, My Princely father great (Northumberland) Was married to a stately Bride: And then methought, just on his Bridal day, A poisoned draft did take his life away. Let not fond visions so appall my Love, For dreams do oftentimes contrary prove. The nights are tedious, and the days are sad, And see you how the people stand in heaps, Each man sad, looking on his aposed object, As if a general passion possessed them? Their eyes do seem, as dropping as the Moon, As if prepared for a Tragedy. For never swarms of people there do tread, But to rob life, and to enrich the dead And show they wept. My Lord they did so, for I was there. I pray resolve us good Master Lieutenant Who was it yonder, that rendered up his life To nature's death? Pardon me my Lord, 'tis felony to acquaint you with death of any Prisoner, yet to resolve your grace, it was your Father, great Northumberland, that this day lost his head. Peace rest his soul, his sins be buried in his grave, And not remembered in his Epitaph: but who comes here? My Father Prisoner! O Iane! now nought but fear thy Title & thy state, Thou now must leave for a small grave. Had I been contented to a been great, I had stood, But now my rising, is pulled down with blood. Farewell, point me my house of prayers. Is grief so short? 'twas wont to be full of words, 'tis true, but now deaths lesson, bids a could adieu. Farewell, thus friends on desperate journeys part, Breaking of words with tears, that swells the heart. It is the pleasure of the Queen that you part lodgings. Till your Arraignment, which must be tomorrow. Good Master Lieutenant let us pray together.
seed 43: T62 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
And ere hee land in England, I will offer My loyall brest for him to treade vpon. O who so forward Wyat as thy selfe, To raise this troublesome Queene in this her Throane? Philip is a Spaniard, a proud Nation, Whome naturally our Countrie men abhorre. Assist me gratious heauens, and you shall see What hate I beare vnto their Slauerie. Ile into Kent, there muster vp my friendes, To saue this Countrie, and this Realme defend. God morrow to the Patron of my woe. God morrowe to my Lord, my louely Dudley. Why doe you looke so sad my dearest Lord? Nay why doth Iane, thus with a heauie eye, And a defected looke, salute the day? Sorrow doth ill become thy siluer brow, Sad griefe lyes dead, so long as thou liues fayre, In my Ianes ioy, I doe not care for care. My lookes (my loue) is sorted with my heart, The Sunne himselfe, doth scantly show his face, Out of this firme grate, you may perceiue the Tower-Hill Thronged with store of people, As if they gap'd for some strange Noueltie. Though sleepe doe sildome dwéll in men of care, Yet I did this night sleepe, and this night dream't, My Princely father great (Northumberland) Was marryed to a stately Bride: And then me thought, iust on his Bridall day, A poysoned draught did take his life away. Let not fond visions so appale my Loue, For dreames doe oftentimes contrarie prooue. The nights are teadious, and the daies are sad, And see you how the people stand in heapes, Each man sad, looking on his aposed obiect, As if a generall passion possest them? Their eyes doe seeme, as dropping as the Moone, As if prepared for a Tragedie. For neuer swarmes of people there doe tread, But to rob life, and to ich the dead And shewe they wept. My Lord they did so, for I was there. I pra'y resolue vs good Maister Lieftenant Who was it yonder, that rendered vp his life To natures death? Pardon m my Lord, tis fellony to acquaint you with death of any Prisoner, yet to resolue your grace, it was your Father, great Northumberland, that this day lost his head. Peace rest his soule, his sinnes be buried in his graue, And not remembred in his Epitaph: but who comes ? My Father Prisoner! O Iane! now ght but fearethy Tytle & thy state, Thou now must leaue for a small graue. Had I bin contented to a bin great, I had stood, But now my rising, is puld downe with blood. Farwell, point me my house of prayers. Is greefe so short? twa's wont to be full of wordes, Tis true, but now Deathes lesson, bids a coulde adue. Farwell, thus friendes on desperate iourneys parte, Breaking of wordes with teares, that swelles the heart. It is the pleasure of the Queene that you part lodgings. Till your Arrainement, which must be to morrow. Good Maister Lieftenant let vs pray together.