The Valiant Welshman (Caradoc the Great) · chunk 5 of 32
A., R. · published 1615 · first performed or written 1612 [1610-1615] (Annals) history · Prince Henry's Men T38 Death, parting and grief at court typicality 0.72 · 469 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Surcease, brave brother; Fortune hath crowned our brows With a victorious wreath; Their Soldiers flee, And all their Army is discomfited. The King sounds a retreat. What is the Traitor dead? This act hath purchased honour to our name, And crowned thee with immortal memory. Off with his head: and let the King behold, His greatest foe and care lies dead and cold. Here ends the life and death of bloody war, Whose grave-like Paunch did never cry, Enough: And welcome, Peace, that long hath lined exiled, immured within the ivory walls of bliss. Ambition now hath thrown her snaky skin, From off her venomed back. Oh may she die, Congealed, and never move again to multiply. God plesse her. Be Cad, Kings, all the Sybils in the whole orld speak not more tales and prophecies, than our Cousin Morgan: Look you now Kings, our cousin Caradoc, and our cousin Constantine, break our fasts with mince-pies and Gallimaufries of legs and arms. Is your Grace a hungry? If you be, I have prought you a calves head in wool, be Cad; 'tis in my Knappesacke. Thanks, gentle Earl. Thanks for a Pig in a poke, 'tis pleeding new; and I pray you thank our cousin Caradoc for it: for as Cad shudge me, he was the Caterer: be Cad, he did kill her with one blow in the crag, as you use to kill Coneys. Why, Cousin Morgan, I use not to kill conies. Do you not? Hark you me: you were a gteat deal better to kill all the conies in Wales, than they to kill her. Be Cad, I have known tall men as Hercules, been wounded to death, and kick up her heels in an Hospital, by the biting of a tame conies in the City: therefore your wild conies in the Suburbs, that eat of nothing but Mandrakes & Turne-her-ups, mark you me now, by Jesus, are worse than Dog days. Well, Cousin, you are merry. But now, brave plants of that unhappy tree, Whom chance of war hath leveled with the earth, And in our cause: We cannot but lament The sudden downfall of that aged Earl. But since the will of heaven is not confined Unto the will of man: his soul's at rest. Our bounties and our love to you alive, Shall well confirm the love we owe him dead. And first, because your worthy selves shall see, Our Royal thoughts adore no peasants god, Or dunghill baseness: but in that sphere we move, Where honour sits coequal with high Ioue. To thee brave Knight, heavens chiefest instrument Of our new-born tranquillity and peace, We give for thy reward, this golden Fleece, Our Royal daughter, beauteous Guinevere, And after our decease, our Kingly right. Speak, valiant Knight, wilt thou accept of this?
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)
Surcease, braue brother; Fortune hath crownd our browes With a victorious wreath; Their Souldiers flee, And all their Army is discomfited. The King sounds a retreat. What is the Traytor dead? This act hath purchast honour to our name, And crownde thee with immortall memory. Off with his head: and let the King behold, His greatest foe and care lies dead and cold. Here ends the life and death of bloudy warre, Whose graue-like Paunch did neuer cry, Inough: And welcome, Peace, that long hath lin'd exilde, Immurde within the Iuory wals of blisse. Ambition now hath throwne her snaky skin, From off her venomde backe. Oh may shee die, Congeal'd, and neuer moue again to multiply. God plesse her. Be Cad, Kings, all the Sybilles in the whole orld speake not more tales and prophesies, then our Cousin Morgan: Looke you now Kings, our cousin Caradoc, and our cousin Constantine, breake our fasts with mince-pyes and Gallymawfryes of legs and armes. Is your Grace a hungry? If you bee, I haue prought you a Calues head in wooll, bee Cad; tis in my Knappesacke. Thanks, gentle Earle. Thanks for a Pigge in a poake, tis pleeding new; and I pray you thanke our cousin Caradoc for it: for as Cad shudge me, hee was the Caterer: be Cad, hee did kill her with one blow in the crag, as you vse to kill Conies. Why, Cousin Morgan, I vse not to kill Conyes. Do you not? Harke you me: you were a gteat deale petter to kil al the Conyes in Wales, then they to kil her. Be Cad, I haue knowne tall men as Hercules, beene wounded to death, and kicke vp her heeles in an Hospitall, by the byting of a tame Conyes in the City: therefore your wilde Conyes in the Suburbs, that eate of nothing but Mandrakes & Turne-her-vps, mark you me now, by Sheshu, are worse then Dog dayes. VVell, Cousin, you are merry. But now, braue plants of that vnhappy tree, VVhom chaunce of warre hath leueld with the earth, And in our cause: We cannot but lament The sudden downefall of that aged Earle. But since the wil of heauen is not confinde Vnto the will of man: his soule's at rest. Our bounties and our loue to you aliue, Shall well confirme the loue we owe him dead. And first, because your worthy selues shall see, Our Royall thoughts adore no peasants god, Or dung-hill basenesse: but in that spheare we moue, Where honour sits coequall with high Ioue. To thee braue Knight, heauens chiefest instrument Of our new-borne tranquility and peace, We giue for thy reward, this golden Fleece, Our Royall daughter, beautious Guiniuer, And after our decease, our Kingly right. Speake, valiant Knight, wilt thou accept of this?