Drue, Thomas · published 1631 · first performed or written 1624 [licensed for stage, Jan 2] (Annals) history · Prince Palatine's (Palsgrave's) Men unassigned nearest T41 Household service: masters, doors and po · 486 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T41: master, house, door, iohn, old, mistress, basket, lord, gentleman, ick.
See yet my Lord, there hath of late been sacrific'd, In sundry places, many persons, of several qualities, Whose names were tedious to relate. Tut this is nothing, every town should blaze, And every street, in every town look red, With glowing cinders of the Miscreants: Till like to Cockle, they were quite extinct, And nothing seen to flourish but pure Corn: The morning spends apace, where are these knaves, Appointed to bring Faggots for the fire, Wherein bold Latimer, and Ridley must expire. They come my Lord. Fie on you loitering knaves, Why make you not more haste, be gone, I say, And see the stake, and every thing be ready, See how I am still procrastinated, The Maior of Oxford, means to dine I think, Before he bring the Prisoners to the stake, How now? where are they? Hard at hand my Lord, But the weak age of Latimer is such, They cannot come so fast, as else they would, Besides some disputations as they pass, Had with the Scholars, hath detained their speed. He have no disputations, bring them on. Come brother Latimer, lend me your arm, The weak, the weak, but not the blind, the blind, This day in Oxford, shall be seen to guide. My heart is jocund, brother Ridley, still, And in my Spirit, I fly unto yond place, But these weak withered saplings are too blame, These legs of mine, that having now at least, Full four score and eight winter's done me service, Should now deceive me trust me, but my soul is Linked in charity, with all the world, I could be well content, to chide with them. These are those self justifying Publicans, Away with them, conduct them to the fire. Come, come, spend no time in talk, Will you convert, be sorry for your crime, And you shall yet find favour with the Queen. Fie, fie, spit at them, offer them no mercy. Proceed in scorn, so was our Master used, The servants are not better than their Lord, Drag them away there, hence away I say. Stay, stay. Which voice is that. Some one that's prisoner in Bocardo here, Oh stay my Lords, whom lead you there to death? The reverent fathers, Ridley, and Latimer? I Cranmer, but more favour rests for thee, Because thou art converted from thine errors. Did you not tell me, they were likewise changed, And have you falsely circumvented me? Oh heaven, forgive my traitorous revolt, And you the chosen vessels of his love, Dear Latimer, sweet Ridley pardon me, To make amends, I'll come and die with you. As your revolt, grave Cranmer, was our grief, So to hear these repentant graceful words, Infuse our hearts with joy, beyond compare. Will Cranmer then turn, and return again. To turn to virtue never comes to late. Thy recantation underneath thy hand, Is published, and wilt thou now contradict it.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
See yet my Lord, there hath of late bin sacrific In sundry places, many persons, of severall qualities, Whose names were tedious to relate. Tut this is nothing, every towne should blaze, And every streete, in every towne looke red, With glowing sinders of the Miscreants: Till like to Cockle, they were quite extinct, And nothing seene to florish but pure Corne: The morning spends apace, where are these knaues, Appointed to bring Fagots for the fire, Wherein bold Latimer, and Ridley must expire. They come my Lord. Fye on you loytering knaues, Why make you not more hast, be gon, I say, And see the stake, and every thing be ready, See how I am still procrastinated, The Maior of Oxford, meanes to dyne I thinke, Before he bring the Prisoners to the stake, How now? where are they? Hard at hand my Lord, But the weake age of Latimer is such, They cannot come so fast, as else they would, Besides some disputations as they passe, Had with the Schollers, hath detayn'd their speede. He haue no disputations, bring them on. Come brother Latimer, lend me your arme, The weake, the weake, but not the blind, the blind, This day in Oxford, shall be seene to guide. My heart is iocund, brother Ridley, still, And in my Spirit, I flye vnto yon place, But these weake withered sapi are too blame, These legs of mine, that having now at least, Full foure score and eight winters done me service, Should now deceaue me trust me, but my soule is Linct in charity, with all the world, I could be well content, to chide with them. These are those selfe iustifying Publicans, Away with them, conduct them to the fire. Come, come, spend no time in talke, Will you convert, be sorie for your crime, And you shall yet finde favor with the Queene. Fye, fye, spit at them, offer them no mercy. Proceed in scorne, so was our Master vs'd, The servants are better then their Lord, Drag them away there, hence away I say. Stay, stay. Which voyce is that. Some one thats prisoner in Bocardo heere, Oh stay my Lords, whom leade you there The reverent fathers, Ridley, and Latimer? I Cranmer, but more fauor rests for thee, Because thou art converted from thine errors. Did you not tell me, they were likewise change▪ And haue you falsely circumvented me? Oh heaven, forgiue my rayterous revolte, And you the chosen vessels of his loue, Deere Latimer, sweete Ridley pardon me, To make amnds, Ile come and dye with you. As your revolt, graue Cranmer, was our griefe, So to heare these repentant gracefull words, Infuse our hearts with ioy, beyond compare. Will Cranmer then turne, and returne againe. To turne to vertue never comes to late. Thy recantation vnderneath thy hand, Is publisht, and wilt thou now contradict it.