Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William / Nashe, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1590 (Annals) history · Derby's (Strange's) Men T10 England and France: war, embassy and pea typicality 0.74 · 492 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
These are the City Gates, the Gates of Rouen, Through which our Policy must make a breach. Take heed, be wary how you place your words, Talk like the vulgar sort of Market men, That come to gather Money for their Corne. If we have entrance, as I hope we shall, And that we find the slothful Watch but weak, I'll by a sign give notice to our friends, That Charles the Dolphin may encounter them. Our Sacks shall be a mean to sack the City And we be Lords and Rulers over Rouen, Therefore we'll knock. Che la. Peasauns la powre gens de France, Poor Market folks that come to sell their Corne. Enter, go in, the Market Bell is rung. Now Rouen, I'll shake thy Bulwarks to the ground. Saint Dennis bless this happy Stratagem, And once again we'll sleep secure in Rouen. Here entered Pucell, and her Practisants: Now she is there, how will she specify? Here is the best and safest passage in. By thrusting out a Torch from yonder Tower, Which once discerned, shows that her meaning is, No way to that (for weakness) which she entered. Behold, this is the happy Wedding Torch, That joineth Rouen unto her Countrymen, But burning fatal to the Talbonites. See Noble Charles the Beacon of our friend, The burning Torch in yonder Turret stands. Now shine it like a Comet of Revenge, A Prophet to the fall of all our Foes. Defer no time, delays have dangerous ends, Enter and cry, the Dolphin, presently, And then do execution on the Watch. France, thou shalt rue this Treason with thy tears, If Talbot but survive thy Treachery. Pucell that Witch, that damned Sorceress, Hath wrought this Hellish Mischief unawares, That hardly we escaped the Pride of France. God morrow Gallants, want ye Corn for Bread? I think the Duke of Burgonie will fast, Before he'll buy again at such a rate. 'Twas full of Darnell: do you like the taste? Scoff on vile Fiend, and shameless Courtesan, I trust ere long to choke thee with thine own, And make thee curse the Harvest of that Corne. Your Grace may starve (perhaps) before that time. Oh let no words, but deeds, revenge this Treason. What will you do, good graybeard? Break a Lance, and run a-Tilt at Death, Within a Chair. Fowl Fiend of France, and Hag of all despite, Encompassed with thy lustful Paramours, Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant Age, And twit with Cowardice a man half dead? Damsel, I'll have a bout with you again, Or else let Talbot perish with this shame. Are ye so hot, Sir: yet Pucell hold thy peace, If Talbot do but Thunder, Rain will follow. God speed the Parliament: who shall be the Speaker? Dare ye come forth, and meet us in the field? Belike your Lordship takes us then for fools, To try if that our own be ours, or no.
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)
Theſe are the Citie Gates, the Gates of Roan, Through which our Pollicy muſt make a breach. Take heed, be wary how you place your words, Talke like the vulgar ſort of Market men, That come to gather Money for their Corne. If we haue entrance, as I hope we ſhall, And that we finde the ſlouthfull Watch but weake, Ile by a ſigne giue notice to our friends, That Charles the Dolphin may encounter them. Our Sacks ſhall be a meane to ſack the City And we be Lords and Rulers ouer Roan, Therefore wee'le knock. Che la. Peaſauns la pouure gens de Fraunce, Poore Market folkes that come to ſell their Corne. Enter, goe in, the Market Bell is rung. Now Roan, Ile ſhake thy Bulwarkes to the ground. Saint Dennis bleſſe this happy Stratageme, And once againe wee'le ſleepe ſecure in Roan. Here entred Pucell, and her Practiſants: Now ſhe is there, how will ſhe ſpecifie? Here is the beſt and ſafeſt paſſage in. By thruſting out a Torch from yonder Tower, Which once diſcern'd, ſhewes that her meaning is, No way to that (for weakneſſe) which ſhe entred. Behold, this is the happy Wedding Torch, That ioyneth Roan vnto her Countreymen, But burning fatall to the Talbonites. See Noble Charles the Beacon of our friend, The burning Torch in yonder Turret ſtands. Now ſhine it like a Commet of Reuenge, A Prophet to the fall of all our Foes. Deferre no time, delayes haue dangerous ends, Enter and cry, the Dolphin, preſently, And then doe execution on the Watch. France, thou ſhalt rue this Treaſon with thy teares, If Talbot but ſuruiue thy Trecherie. Pucell that Witch, that damned Sorcereſſe, Hath wrought this Helliſh Miſchiefe vnawares, That hardly we eſcap't the Pride of France. God morrow Gallants, want ye Corn for Bread? I thinke the Duke of Burgonie will faſt, Before hee'le buy againe at ſuch a rate. 'Twas full of Darnell: doe you like the taſte? Scoffe on vile Fiend, and ſhameleſſe Curtizan, I truſt ere long to choake thee with thine owne, And make thee curſe the Harueſt of that Corne. Your Grace may ſtarue (perhaps) before that time. Oh let no words, but deedes, reuenge this Treaſon. What will you doe, good gray-beard? Breake a Launce, and runne a-Tilt at Death, Within a Chayre. Foule Fiend of France, and Hag of all deſpight, Incompaſs'd with thy luſtfull Paramours, Becomes it thee to taunt his valiant Age, And twit with Cowardiſe a man halfe dead? Damſell, Ile haue a bowt with you againe, Or elſe let Talbot periſh with this ſhame. Are ye ſo hot, Sir: yet Pucell hold thy peace, If Talbot doe but Thunder, Raine will follow. God ſpeed the Parliament: who ſhall be the Speaker? Dare yee come forth, and meet vs in the field? Belike your Lordſhip takes vs then for fooles, To try if that our owne be ours, or no.