Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William / Nashe, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1590 (Annals) history · Derby's (Strange's) Men unassigned nearest T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma · 509 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
When from the Dolphin's Crest thy Sword struck fire, It warmed thy Father's heart with proud desire Of boldfaced Victory. Then Leaden Age, Quickened with Youthful Spleen, and Warlike Rage, Beat down Alencon, Orleans, Burgundy, And from the Pride of Gallia rescued thee. The ireful Bastard Orleans, that drew blood From thee my Boy, and had the Maidenhood Of thy first fight, I soon encountered, And interchanging blows, I quickly shed Some of his Bastard blood, and in disgrace Bespoke him thus: Contaminated, base, And misbegotten blood, I spill of thine, Mean and right poor, for that pure blood of mine, Which thou didst force from Talbot, my brave Boy. Here purposing the Bastard to destroy, Came in strong rescue. Speak thy Father's care: Art thou not weary, Iohn? How dost thou far? Wilt thou yet leave the Battle, Boy, and fly, Now thou art sealed the Son of Chivalry? Fly, to revenge my death when I am dead, The help of one stands me in little stead. Oh, too much folly is it, well I wots, To hazard all our lives in one small Boat, If I to day die not with Frenchmens Rage, To morrow I shall dye with much Age. By me they nothing gain, and if I stay, 'Tis but the shortening of my Life one day. In thee thy Mother dies, our Household's Name, My Death's Revenge, thy Youth, and England's Fame: All these, and more, we hazard by thy stay; All these are saved, if thou wilt fly away. The Sword of Orleans hath not made me smart, These words of yours draw Life-blood from my Heart. On that advantage, bought with such a shame, To save a paltry Life, and slay bright Fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot fly, The Coward Horse that bears me, fall and dye: And like me to the peasant Boys of France. To be Shames scorn, and subject of Mischance. Surely, by all the Glory you have won, And if I fly, I am not Talbots Son. Then talk no more of flight, it is no boot, If Son to Talbot, die at Talbots foot. Then follow thou thy desperate Sire of Crete, Thou Icarus, thy Life to me is sweet: If thou wilt fight, fight by thy Father's side, And commendable proved, let's dye in pride. Where is my other Life? mine own is gone. O, where's young Talbot? where is valiant Iohn? Triumphant Death, smeared with Captivity, Young Talbots Valour makes me smile at thee. When he perceived me shrink, and on my Knee, His bloody Sword he brandished over me, And like a hungry Lion did commence Rough deeds of Rage, and stern Impatience: But when my angry Guardant stood alone, Tendering my ruin, and assailed of none, Dizzie-eyed Fury, and great rage of Heart, Suddenly made him from my side to start Into the clustering Battle of the French: And in that Sea of Blood, my Boy did drench His over-mounting Spirit; and there died My Icarus, my Blossom, in his pride.
seed 43: T8 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
When frō the Dolphins Creſt thy Sword ſtruck fire, It warm'd thy Fathers heart with prowd deſire Of bold-fac't Victorie. Then Leaden Age, Quicken'd with Youthfull Spleene, and Warlike Rage, Beat downe Alanſon, Orleance, Burgundie, And from the Pride of Gallia reſcued thee. The irefull Baſtard Orleance, that drew blood From thee my Boy, and had the Maidenhood Of thy firſt fight, I ſoone encountred, And interchanging blowes, I quickly ſhed Some of his Baſtard blood, and in diſgrace Beſpoke him thus: Contaminated, baſe, And mis-begotten blood, I ſpill of thine, Meane and right poore, for that pure blood of mine, Which thou didſt force from Talbot, my braue Boy. Here purpoſing the Baſtard to deſtroy, Came in ſtrong reſcue. Speake thy Fathers care: Art thou not wearie, Iohn? How do'ſt thou fare? Wilt thou yet leaue the Battaile, Boy, and flie, Now thou art ſeal'd the Sonne of Chiualrie? Flye, to reuenge my death when I am dead, The helpe of one ſtands me in little ſtead. Oh, too much folly is it, well I wot, To hazard all our liues in one ſmall Boat, If I to day dye not with Frenchmens Rage, To morrow I ſhall dye with mickle Age. By me they nothing gaine, and if I ſtay, 'Tis but the ſhortning of my Life one day. In thee thy Mother dyes, our Houſeholds Name, My Deaths Reuenge, thy Youth, and Englands Fame: All theſe, and more, we hazard by thy ſtay; All theſe are ſau'd, if thou wilt flye away. The Sword of Orleance hath not made me ſmart, Theſe words of yours draw Life-blood from my Heart. On that aduantage, bought with ſuch a ſhame, To ſaue a paltry Life, and ſlay bright Fame, Before young Talbot from old Talbot flye, The Coward Horſe that beares me, fall and dye: And like me to the peſant Boyes of France. To be Shames ſcorne, and ſubiect of Miſchance. Surely, by all the Glorie you haue wonne, And if I flye, I am not Talbots Sonne. Then talke no more of flight, it is no boot, If Sonne to Talbot, dye at Talbots foot. Then follow thou thy deſp'rate Syre of Creet, Thou Icarus, thy Life to me is ſweet: If thou wilt fight, fight by thy Fathers ſide, And commendable prou'd, let's dye in pride. Where is my other Life? mine owne is gone. O, where's young Talbot? where is valiant Iohn? Triumphant Death, ſmear'd with Captiuitie, Young Talbots Valour makes me ſmile at thee. When he perceiu'd me ſhrinke, and on my Knee, His bloodie Sword he brandiſht ouer mee, And like a hungry Lyon did commence Rough deeds of Rage, and ſterne Impatience: But when my angry Guardant ſtood alone, Tendring my ruine, and aſſayl'd of none, Dizzie-ey'd Furie, and great rage of Heart, Suddenly made him from my ſide to ſtart Into the cluſtring Battaile of the French: And in that Sea of Blood, my Boy did drench His ouer-mounting Spirit; and there di'de My Icarus, my Bloſſome, in his pride.