Caesar and Pompey (The Wars of Caesar and Pompey) · chunk 21 of 34
Chapman, George · published 1631 · first performed or written 1605 [1602-1605; Act 2, sc. 1 written 1610-1611(?)] (Annals) tragedy · Unacted (?) · Blackfriars T2 Roman politics: senate, consuls and civi typicality 0.78 · 480 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T2: rome, caesar, senate, sulla, roman, consul, brutus, romans, men, marius.
My judgement from enforcing fight this morn? The new-fled night made day with Meteors, Fired over Caesar's camp, and fall'n in mine, As pointing out the terrible events Yet in suspense; but where they threat their fall Speak not these prodigies with fiery tongues, And eloquence that should not move but ravish All sound minds, from thus tempting the just gods, And spitting out their fair premonishing flames With brackish rheums of ruder and brainsick number, What's infinitely more, thus wild, thus mad For one poor fortune of a beaten few; To half so many stayed, and dreadful soldiers? Long trained, long foughten? able, nimble, perfect To turn and wind advantage every way? Increase with little, and enforce with none? Made bold as lions, gaunt as famished wolves, With still-served slaughters, and continual toils. You should not, Sir, forsake your own wise Counsel, Your own experienced discipline, own practice, Own god inspired insight to all changes, Of Protean fortune, and her zany, war, For hosts, and hells of such; What man will think The best of them, not mad; to see them range So up and down your camp, already suing For offices fall'n, by Caesars built on fall, Before one stroke be struck? Domitius, Spinther, Your father Scipio new preparing friends For Caesar's place of universal Bishop? Are you th' observed rule, and vouched example; whoever would commend Physicians, That would not follow the diseased desires Of their sick patients? yet incur yourself The faults that you so much abhor in others. I cannot, Sir, abide men's open mouths, Nor be ill spoken of; nor have my counsels And circumspections, turned on me for fears, With mocks and scandals that would make a man Of lead, a lightning; in the desperat'st onset That ever trampled under death, his life. I bear the touch of fear for all their safeties. Or for mine own? enlarge with twice as many Self-lives, self-fortunes? they shall sink beneath Their own credulities, before I cross them. Come, haste, dispose our battle. Good my Lord, Against your Genius war not for the world. By all worlds he that moves me next to bear Their scoffs and imputations of my fear For any cause, shall bear this sword to hell. Away, to battle; good my Lord lead you The whole six thousand of our young Patricians, Placed in the left wing to environ Caesar. My father Scipio shall lead the battle; Domitius the left wing; I the right Against Marc Anthony. Take now your fills Ye beastly doters on your barbarous wills. Fly, fly, the day was lost before 'twas fought. The Romans feared their shadows. Were there ever Such monstrous confidences, as last night Their Cups and music showed? Before the morning Made such amazes ere one stroke was struck? It made great Pompey mad, which who could mend? The gods had hand in it.
seed 43: T1 · seed 44: T2 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
My iudgement from enforcing fight this morne? The new-fled night made day with Meteors, Fir'd ouer Caeſars campe, and falne in mine, As pointing out the terrible euents Yet in ſuſpence; but where they threat their fall Speake not theſe prodigies with fiery tongues, And eloquence that ſhould not moue but ruiſh All ſound mindes, from thus tempting the iuſt gods, And ſpitting out their faire premoniſhing flames With brackiſh rheumes of ruderand brainſick number, What's infinitely more, thus wild, thus mad For one poore fortune of a beaten few; To halfe ſo many ſtaid, and dreadfull ſouldiers? Long train'd, long foughten? able, nimble, perfect To turne and winde aduantage euery way? Encreaſe with little, and enforce with none? Made bold as Lyons, gaunt as famiſht wolues, With ſtill-ſeru'd ſlaughters, and continuall toyles. You ſhould not, Sir, forſake your owne wiſe Counſell, Your owne experienc't diſcipline, owne practiſe, Owne god inſpired inſight to all changes, Of Protean fortune, and her zny, warre, For hoſts, and hels of ſuch; What man will thinke The beſt of them, not mad; to ſee them range So vp and downe your campe, already ſuing For offices falne, by Caeſars built on fall, Before one ſtroke be ſtruck? Domitius, Spinther, Your father Scipio new preparing friends For Caeſars place of vniuerſall Biſhop? Are you th' obſerued rule, and voucht example; Who euer would commend Phyſitians, That would not follow the diſeaſ'd deſires Of their ſick patients? yet incurre your ſelfe The faults that you ſo much abhorre in others. I cannot, Sir, abide mens open mouthes, Nor be ill ſpoken of; nor haue my counſels And circumſpections, turnd on me for feares, With mocks and ſcandals that would make a man Of lead, a lightning; in the deſperat'ſt onſet That euer trampled vnder death, his life. I beare the touch of feare for all their ſafeties. Or for mine owne? enlarge with twice as many Selfe-liues, ſelfe-fortunes? they ſhall ſinke beneath Their owne credlities, before I croſſe them. Come, haſte, diſpoſe our battaile. Good my Lord, Againſt your Genius warre not for the world. By all worlds he that moues me next to beare Their ſcofs and imputations of my feare For any cauſe, ſhall beare this ſword to hell. Away, to battaile; good my Lord lead you The whole ſix thouſand of our yong Patricians, Plac't in the left wing to enuiron Caeſar. My father Scipio ſhall lead the battaile; Domitius the left wing; I the right Againſt Marc Anthony. Take now your fils Ye beaſtly doters on your barbarous wills. Fly, fly, the day was loſt before twas fought. The Romans feard their ſhadowes. Were there euer Such monſtrous confidences, as laſt night Their Cups and muſique ſhew'd? Before the morning Made ſuch amazes ere one ſtroke was ſtruck? It made great Pompey mad, which who could mend? The gods had hand in it.