Heywood, Thomas · published 1607 · first performed or written 1603 [Feb 12-Mar 6, payment] (Annals) tragedy · Worcester's Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 507 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
So: well cast off, aloft, aloft, well flown: O now she takes her at the sowse, and strikes her down to the earth, like a swift thunderclap, She hath struck ten Angels out of my way. A hundred pound from me. What falconer? At hand sir. Now she hath seized the fowl, and 'gins to plume her Rebeck her not, rather stand still and check her, So: cease her gets, her loesses, and her bells. Away? My Hawk killed to. ay, but 'twas at the querre, Not at the mount like mine. judgement my masters. yours mist her at the far. ay but our Merlin first hath plummed the fowl, And twice renewed her from the river to, Her bells Sir Francis had not both one weight, Nor was one semitune above the other, Methinks these Milan bells do sound too full, And spoil the mounting of your Hawk. 'tis lost. I grant it not: mine likewise seized a fowl Within her talents, and you saw her pause Full of the feathers, both her petty singles, And her long singles, gripped her more than other, The terrials of her legs were stained with blood; Not of the fowl only, she did discomfit, Some of her feathers, but she broke away, Come, come, your Hawk is but a rifler. How? ay, and your Dogs are trindle tails and Curs. You stir my blood. you keep not a good hound in all your kennel, Nor one good Hawk upon your Perch. How Knight? So Knight? you will not swagger Sir? Why, say I did? Why sir, I say you would gain as much by swaggering As you have got by wagers on your Dogs, you will come short in all things. Not in this, now i'll strike home. Thou shalt to thy long home, or I will want my will. All they that love Sir Francis follow me. All that affect Sir Charles draw on my part. On this side heaves my hand. Here goes my heart. My God: what have I done? what have I done? My rage hath plunged into a Sea of blood, In which my soul lies drowned poor Innocent, For whom we are to answer: Well 'tis done, And I remain the victor? A great conquest; When I would give this right hand, nay this head, To breathe in them new life, whom I have slain. Forgive me God, 'twas in the heat of blood, And anger quite removes me from myself: It was not I, but rage, did this vile murder: Yet I, and not my rage, must answer it. Sir Francis Acton he is fled the field, With him, all those that did partake his quarrel, And I am left alone, with sorrow dumb, And in my height of conquest, overcome, Oh God my Brother wounded among the dead, Unhappy jest that in such earnest ends, The rumor of this fear, stretched to my ears, And I am come to know if you be wounded. Oh sister, sister, wounded at the heart.
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)
So: well cast off, alof, aloft, well flowne: O now she takes her at the sowse, and strikes her downe to the earth, like a swift thunderclap, She hath stroke ten Angels out of my way. A hundred pound from me. What Faulkener? At hand sir. Now she hath ceazd the Fowle, and gins to plume hir Rebeck her not, rather stand stil and checke her, So: ceaze her gts, her lesses, and hir bels. Away? My Hawke kild to. I, but twas at the querre, Not at the mount like mine. Iudgement my maisters. yours mist her at the ferre. I but our Merlin first hath plumd the fowle, And twice renewed her from the riuer to, Her bels Sir Francis had not both one weight, Nor was one semitune aboue the other, Methinks these millaine bels do sound too full, And spoile the mounting of your Hawke. Tis lost. I grant it not: mine likewise ceazd a fowle Within her talents, and you saw her pawse Full of the feathers, both her petty singles, And her long singles, gript her more thn other, The terrils of her legs were staind with blood; Not of the Fowle onely, she did discomfite, Some of her feathers, bu she brake away, Come, come, your Hawke is but a rifler. How? I, and your Dogs are trindle tailes and Curs. You stir my blood. you keepe not a good hound in all your kennell, Nor one good Hawke vpon your Perch. How Knight? So Knight? you will not swagger Sir? Why, say I did? Why sir, I say you would gaine as much by swaggring As you haue got by wagers on your Dogs, you will come short in al things. Not in this, now ile strike home. Thou shalt to thy long home, or I will want my will. All they that loue Sir Francis follow me. All that affect Sir Charles draw on my part. On this side heaues my hand. Here goes my hart. My God: what haue I done? what haue I done? My rage hath plung'd into a Sea of blood, In which my soule lies drownd poore Innocent, For whome we are to answere: Well tis done, And I remaine the victor? A great conquest; When I would giue this right hand, nay this head, To breath in them new life, whom I haue slaine. Forgiue me God, twas in the heat of blood, And anger quite remoues me from my selfe: It was not I, but rage, did this vile murder: Yet I, and not my rage, must answere it. Sir Francis Acton he is fled the field, With him, all those that did pertake his quarrell, And I am left alone, with sorrow dumbe, And in my height of conquest, ouercome, Oh God my Brother wounded among the dead, Vnhappy iest that in such earnest ends, The rumor of this feare, stretcht to my eares, And I am come to know if you be wounded. Oh sister, sister, wounded at the hart.