Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
France made this certain truth, who in his brags Had sworn the fall of Mahomet: but now When he might hear the groans of Graecia Delivered by the echoes of their sea, To make them more, he thinks on a retreat, And chooseth home before a victory. It was a valley, where our Taro laves The root of Apennine, and a large plain sphered with a row of swelling Earth makes war A spacious Amphitheatre: where we Stayed for their coming; when mature advice That crowns most actions, strangely injured us, For rashness would have stole a victory Which tedious consultation gave away. Success had smiled on our temerity Had we assaulted them upon the hills And added to the mountains with the French. But I am tedious: only our van fought, And 'twas the Frenchmens victory to resist: Both were o'ercome, both conquerors, for they Still kept the field, and we still kept the prey. O what is valour joined with Modesty! This conquers both your Fortune and your skill. Should you but write a story; and profess That pureness from all passion which you've shown. You would be credited, though 'twere your own. But what reward is't to be but believed? You shall be ever praised: what you have done Fears neither envy, nor oblivion: And for this act succession shall see Caiazzo as long-lived as Italy: I Wonder Malatesta still survives: Sure Sforza has forgot himself; my death Does but half clear him, and if th'other live, He cannot look for a full innocence. It is not mercy, certainly: o, no, Mercy with him is folly: but 'tmay be He fears that had he killed us both at once Rumor would be too busy, and all mouths Would cry, that Chance had too much project in't. This is the place of Destiny, 'tis here Sforza does actuate his bloody arts, Mistaking privacy for innocence, And thinks he's good, because he is not seen. Here must I wait for a discovery. I must once more be cruel, yet not I, This is the murder of Necessity: But what has he deserved, who has done nought But what we charged, and so performed our thought? Is Death due to Obedience? can this hand Yield to his Fate, that sealed to his command? Yet he, or I must perish: shall I see My life, my honour, my Eternity, Lie at his mercy, and be safe, so long As he is pleased to temper his rude tongue? Till he be drunk, or treacherous? I'll first Study amongst all actions, which is worst And overact it: though our former deed Was from ambition, this is yet from need: Death is too good reward for such a slave, And sure there is no blabbing in the grave. But here he comes: why are thy looks so grim? Why, Malatesta, in thy furrowed face See I the signs of Anger, or of Grief? Command thy face to a more smiling form, That I may think thee pleased when thou dost tell What does displease thee.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T8 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
France made this certaine truth, who in his brags Had ſworne the fall of Mahomet: but now VVhen he might heare the groanes of Graecia Deliuer'd by the ecchoes of their ſea, To make them more, he thinkes on a retreat, And chuſeth home before a victory▪ It was a vally, where our Taro laues The root of Appenine, and a large plaine Spheard with a row of ſwelling Earth makes warre A ſpatious Amphitheater: where we Stayd for their comming; when mature aduice That crownes moſt actions, ſtrangely iniur'd vs, For raſhneſſe would haue ſtole a victory VVhich tedious conſultation gaue away. Succeſſe had ſmil'd on our temerity Had we aſſaulted them vpon the hills And added to the mountaines with the French. But I am tedious: onely our vanne fought, And twas the Frenchmens victory to reſiſt: Both were o'recome, both conquerors, for they Still kept the field, and wee ſtill kept the prey. O what is valour ioyn'd with Modeſty! This conquers both your Fortune and your skill. Should you but write a ſtory; and profeſſe That pureneſſe from all paſſion which y'aue ſhowne. You would be credited, though twere your owne. But what reward is't to be but beleeu'd? You ſhall be euer prays'd: what you haue done Feares neither enuy, nor obliuion: And for this act ſucceſſion ſhall ſee Caiazzo as long-liu'd as Italy▪ I Wonder Malateſta ſtill ſuruiues: Sure Sforza has forgot himſelfe; my death Does but halfe cleare him, and if th'other liue, He cannot looke for a full innocence. It is not mercy, certainly: ô, no, Mercy with him is folly: but t'may bee He feares that had he kild vs both at once Rumor would be too buſie, and all mouths Would cry, that Chance had too much proiect in't. This is the place of Deſtiny, 'tis here Sforza does actuate his bloody arts, Miſtaking priuacy for innocence, And thinkes hee's good, becauſe he is not ſeene▪ Here muſt I wayte for a diſcouery. I muſt once more be cruell, yet not I, This is the murther of Neceſſity: But what has he deſeru'd, who has done nought But what we charg'd, and ſo perform'd our thought? Is Death due to Obedience can this hand Yeeld to his Fate, that fe'd to his command? Yet he, or I muſt periſh: ſhall I ſee My life, my honor, my Aeternity▪ Lye at his mercy, and be ſafe, ſo long As he is pleas'd to temper his rude tongue? Till he be drunke, or treacherous? Ile firſt Study amongſt all actions, which is worſt And ouer-act it▪ though our former deed Was from ambition, this is yet from need: Death is too good reward for ſuch a ſlaue, And ſure there is no blabbing in the graue. But here he comes: why are thy looks ſo grim? Why, Malateſta, in thy urrow'd face See I the ſignes of Anger, or of Griefe? Command thy face to a more ſmiling forme, That I may thinke thee pleas'd when thou doſt tell What does diſpleaſe thee.