The Valiant Welshman (Caradoc the Great) · chunk 3 of 32
A., R. · published 1615 · first performed or written 1612 [1610-1615] (Annals) history · Prince Henry's Men T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho typicality 0.81 · 477 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
Conduct them to our presence. Welcome, brave Earl, with these thy manly sons: Never came rain unto the Sunne-parcht earth, In more auspicious time, than thy supply, To scourge usurping pride and sovereignty. Oh my gracious Lord, Cadallan comes drawn by that powerful awe Of that rich Adamant his soul adores. The needle's point is not more willing to salute the North, Man joyfuller to sit enshrined in heaven, Then is my loyalty to aid my King. I know, dread Liege, that each true man should know, To what intent dame Nature brought him forth: True subjects are like Commons, who should feed Their King, their Country, and their friends at need. Brave Earl of March, I need not here delude The precious time with vain capituling Our own hereditary right. Graves to the dead, Balsam to green wounds, or a soul to man Is not more proper, then Octavian To the usurped Title Monmouth holds. Then once more on: this be our only trust: Heavens suffer wrongs: but Angels guard the just. Now valiant Countrymen, once more prepare Your hands and hearts unto a bloody fight. Stern Mars begins to buckle on his helm, And waves his sanguine colours in the air: Recount, brave spirits, two glorious victories, Got with the death of many thousand souls. Think on the cause, for which we stand engaged, Even to the hazard of our goods and lives: That were Octavians forces like the stars, Beyond the limits of Arithmetic: Or equal to the mighty Xerxes' host: Yet like the poles, our dauntless courage stands, unshaken by their feeble multitudes. But soft: what Drum is this? Soldiers, look out. Did Cesar come, this welcome he should have, Strong arms, big hearts, and to conclude, a grave. My Lord Octavian, Backed with the Earl of March and his three sons, Intends to give you battle. No more, no more: fond doting Earl: Is not there room enough within Churchyards, To earth his aged body, with his sons, But he must hither come to make their graves? Drums, beat aloud. I'll not articulate. My soul is drowned in rage. This bloody fight Shall tomb their bodies in eternal night. Rot from his cursed trunk that villains arm, That gave this fatal wound to reverend age. How fares our Princely father? As fares the sick man, when the nights black bird Beats at his casements with his sable wings: Or as the half dead captive being condemned, Awaits the churlish jailers fearful call Out of his loathsome dungeon to his death: So fares it with the wounded Earl of March: The current of my blood begins to freeze, Touched by the Icy power of gelid death: A sad Eclipse darkens these two bright lights: My vital spirits faint, my pulses cease, And nature's frame dissolves to nature's peace, All by that damned usurper.
seed 43: T22 · seed 44: T13 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Conduct them to our presence. Welcome, braue Earle, with these thy manly sonnes: Neuer came raine vnto the Sunne-parcht earth, In more auspicious time, then thy supply, To scourge vsurping pride and soueraignety. Oh my gracious Lord, Cadallan comes drawne by that powerfull awe Of that rich Adamant his soule adores. The needles poynt is not more willing to salute the North, Man ioyfuller to sit inshrinde in heauen, Then is my loyalty to ayde my King. I know, dread Liege, that each true man should know, To what intent dame Nature brought him forth: True subiects are like Commons, who should feede Their King, their Country, and their friends at need. Braue Earle of March, I need not here delude The precious time with vaine capituling Our own hereditary right. Graues to the dead, Balsum to greene wounds, or a soule to man Is not more proper, then Octauian To the vsurped Title Monmouth holds. Then once more on: this be our onely trust: Heauens suffer wrongs: but Angels gard the iust. Now valiant Countreymen, once more prepare Your hands and hearts vnto a bloudy fight. Sterne Mars beginnes to buckle on his helme, And waues his sanguine colours in the ayre: Recount, braue spirits, two glorious victories, Got with the death of many thousand soules. Thinke on the cause, for which we stand ingagde, Euen to the hazard of our goods and liues: That were Octauians forces like the starres, Beyond the limits of Arithmetike: Or equall to the mighty Xerxes hoste: Yet like the poles, our dauntlesse courage stands, Vnshaken by their feeble multitudes. But soft: what Drum is this? Souldiers, look out. Did Cesar come, this welcome he should haue, Strong armes, bigge hearts, and to conclude, a graue. My Lord Octauian, Backt with the Earle of March and his three sonnes, Intends to giue you battell. No more, no more: fond doting Earle: Is not there roome enough within Churchyards, To earth his aged bodie, with his sonnes, But hee must hither come to make their graues? Drums, beat aloud. Ile not articulate. My soule is drown'd in rage. This bloudy fight Shall toombe their bodies in eternal night. Rot from his cursed trunke that villaines arme, That gaue this fatall wound to reuerend age. How fares our Princely father? As fares the sicke man, when the nights blacke bird Beates at his casements with his sable wings: Or as the halfe dead captiue being condemn'd, Awaites the churlish Iaylors fearefull call Out of his lothsome dungeon to his death: So fares it with the wounded Earle of March: The current of my bloud begins to freeze, Toucht by the Icy power of gelid death: A sad Eclipse darkens these two bright lights: My vitall spirits faint, my pulses cease, And natures frame dissolues to natures peace, All by that damn'd vsurper.