Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T10: france, french, england, king, lord, english, edward, talbot, peace, lords.
I've heard some tell that a great City once Was built by Musicke: would we might not d Our Country to be ruined by a dance: O fear the toying of an enemy. What cannot be believed, cannot be feared. You'll not believe, not you, till the French swords Dive to the bottom of your doubting heart, Till that th'unkinder news is brought so near, You cannot have the power to believe it: Can you believe this is a drum that beats? That this is the courageous General? Can you believe, that he believes 'tis true? But who assists us in this dreadful time? As many as we have deserved: not one: Sforza has too much wisdom to have friends. And we have too much— I said nothing, did I? I did not speak against the State, I hope? Nor said that we had too much patience? Is Picinino then o'ercome at last, Now I could change my sorrow for a smile. I must confess an anger though not grief: O how I love to fit me to mischance And when that has no reason, then I'm mad. Why should our Milan blood stain the french swords Unto a glory? Sforza does offend, denies the heavenly powers, or names them then, When he does dare them with bold perjury, Loads his black soul with murder of a man That could have made his execution, justice. This Sforza does, but what is this to me? Why shall this throat be cut for his? why thine? Why shall our Countries ruin fill his penance? The heavens do know no mean but either waste Their benefits on dull ingratitude Or throw away their thunder, so it hit So it not fail, they care not whom it strike, Whether the guilty, or the innocent. This is a grief of higher fault than mine, You make a war with them you should appease, And urge the heavens to our calamities. First we were punished with, and now for Sforza, Could any justice have more method in't. Well Iulian, I me sorry for my grief, And so persuade thee to that holy truth. I now could rave against myself, not heaven, But 'tis as fruitless, as to wish good luck: Then let the French press upon victory, Let them amaze the Air with stranger fire, Raised by our Cities flaming Funerals. Swell they the Poe with blood, act o'er, whate'er Has been the brag of royal murderers, Yet our defence is here: Fortune may fail But our true souls shall never, we may lose An aged life, but not Eternity: And with this strength the field must needs be ours: Who do not fear, do beat the Conquerors. WHat noise is this that from a foreign foe Recalls our anger? yet our purer hands Know not the die of blood: we should be loath To learn a valour on our subjects first.
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)
I'ue heard ſoe tell that a great City once Was built by Muſicke: would we might not d Our Country to be ruin'd by a dance: O feare the toying of an enemy. What cannot be beleeu'd, cannot be fear'd. Youle not beleeue, not you, till the French ſwords Diue to the bottome of your doubting heart, Till that th'vokinder newes is brought ſo nere, You cannot haue the power to beleeue it: Can you beleeue this is a drum that beats? That this is the couragious Generall? Can you beleeue, that he beleeues 'tis true? But who aſſiſts vs in this dreadfull time? As many as we haue deſeru'd: not one: Sforza has too much wiſedome to haue friends. And we haue too much—I ſaid nothing, did I? I did not ſpeake againſt the State▪ I hope? Nor ſaid that we had too much patience? Is Picinino then orecome at laſt, Now I could change my ſorrow for a ſmile. I muſt confeſſe an anger though not griefe: O how I loue to fit me to miſchance And when that has no reaſon, then I'me ad. Why ſhould our Millan blood ſtaine the french ſwords Vnto a glory? Sforza does offend, Deny's the heau'nly pow'rs, or names them then, When he does dare them with bold periury, Loads his blacke ſoule with murther of a man That could haue made his execution, iuſtice. This Sforza does, but what is this to me? Why ſhall this throat be cut for his? why thine? Why ſhall our Countryes ruine fill his penance? The heau'ns doe know no meane but either waſt Their benefits on dull ingratitude Or throw away their thunder, ſo it hit So it not faile, they care not whom it ſtrike, VVhether the guilty, or the innocent. This is a griefe of higher fault then mine, You make a warre with them you ſhould appeaſe, And vrge the heau'ns to our calamities. Firſt we were puniſht with, and now for Sforza, Could any iuſtice haue more method in't. Well Iulian, I me ſorry for my griefe, And ſo perſwade thee to that holy truth. I now could raue againſt my ſelfe, not heau'n, But tis as fruitleſſe, as to wiſh good lucke: Then let the French preſſe vpon victory, Let them amaze the Ayre with ſtranger fire, Rais'd by our Cities flaming Funeralls. Swell they the Poe with blood, act o're, what ere Has beene the brag of royall murtherers, Yet our defence is here: Fortune may faile But our true ſouls ſhall neuer, we may loſe An aged life, but not Aeternity: And with this ſtrength the field muſt needs be ours: Who doe not feare, doe beat the Conquerors. VVHat noyſe is this that from a forraigne foe Recalls our anger? yet our purer hands Know not the dy of blood: we ſhould be loath To learne a valour on our ſubiects firſt.