Selected quad for the lemma: england_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
england_n	act_n	act_v	affair_n	16	3	7.0503	4	false

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A48783	The legend of Captaine Jones relating his adventure to sea, his first landing, and strange combat with a mighty beare : his furious battell with his six and thirty men, against the army of eleven kings, with their overthtow [sic] and deaths, his relieving of Kemper Castle, his strange and admirable sea-fight with six huge gallies of Spain, and nine thousand soldiers, his taking prisoner and hard usage : lastly, his setting at liberty by the Kings command, and returne for England.	Lloyd, David, 1597-1663.; Lluelyn, Martin, 1616-1682.	1656 (1656)	Wing L2631; ESTC R22326	41,199	102

To find their flesh in whose defence they stood Stand whilst it fell for that their keen swords whipt off As if they would each other make a chipt loaf At last as I have seen a man of war Exalt a Carrick which exceeds him far In bulk and strength so Iones deales now with Bryan With shuns and shifts more like a Fox than Lion For to speak truly this fell Pagan lout Doth so belabour Jones from head to foot That both his eares doe oft with sorrow sing And 's eyes see starres at noon a wondrous thing We must conceive those furious blowes he dealt Were well repaid with use which Bryan felt But Iones esteeming it an equal thing To be self-conquer'd and long conquering Resolves to put the businesse out of doubt With one Passe more which was the fatall bour On this Resolve with both his hands he prest The pummel of his sword against his brest Then like a thunder-bolt tilts swiftly at him With th' fear of this Bryan had quite forgot him That 't was a bog behinde so backward springs And his whole body up to th' arm-pits flings Amidst the bog Jones driven with his own force Missing his thrust falls headlong in the gorse But pitcht upon his foe by happy fate With which ore-born our Jones so mawles his pate That th' helmet flies and leaves his head to th' danger Of being the anvill of our Iones his anger And now the day is his his strength he straines With hand and hilt to beat out Bryans brains Who cries out quarter Man of Mars I yeild My self and sword the honour of the field And where the power rests 't is much better far To give then take a life in chance of war This and the bog doth cool the wrath of Jones He spares his life and drawes him forth at once Besides he scorn'd posterity should tell That by his hand Tyrone so nobly fell And thus Oneale his captive as he thought In this foul plight unto the camp he brought Presents him to the General and then spake Sir if you have ten more Tyrones to take Command I le do 't here see him hither led By me who all this charge and stir hath bred The joy was great but short 't was quickly known This was but some impostor for Tyrone And this an Irish Captive at first view Made known who him and his condition knew This bred a qualme in some whil'st others smil'd To see their British Champions so beguil'd And that Tyrone had bobb'd him with this jeer To match his Cow-herd with our Mountaneer Jones vext with this retires unto his tent An angry dirty desperate male content Three dayes thus spent his wrath no longer beares This base affront like Scaevola he-sweares Hee 'l kill Tyrone in midst of all his force Though in the act himself be made a coarce In this wild mood by night he doth convey Himself where he suppos'd the Rebell lay Who wisely rais'd his camp the day before March'd farre through desart woods and would no more Of these affronts which to put off agen Might breed contempt of him with his own men Two dayes Jones spends in quests to finde him out At last he was encountred with a rout Of ravening wolves who fiercely all at once Assail'd the back and face of manly Jones 'T was time to draw else these wild Irish dogs Had been so bold to shake him by the logs But when his sword was out he makes them feel Their teeth are not so sharp as his true steel The first good blow he dealt took off a head The second made one two the next he sped With a sore thrust at mouth and out at taile A sourth which his posteriors doth assaile With his strong heel he hurles against a tree Twelve paces from his kick and there lyes he His sword rips out anothers empty paunch The next limps off from him with half a haunch We must conceive 't was time to lay about him For here were those that fought to eat not rout him Nor scap'd he free the rich sword skarf he wore About his loynes they all to fitters tore His boots pluckt off by bits some flesh to boot No quarter free from skarres from head to foot And to conclude from these wilde Irish witches He scapes scant with a hands breadth of his breeches Wearied with blowes and kicks at last they fly him And take a snarling leave as they go by him Thus Iones half worried hasts unto the camp There 's none could say the clothes he wore were damp With night perdues unlesse they meant to flout him For to speak truth he had no clothes about him Thus come he sweares by the immortall powers He had maintain'd a battel full five houres With forty duels five and twenty kill'd Routed the rest who all had took the field 'Gainst him alone all rais'd with him to fight To his destruction or t' eclipse his might By that old timerous treacherous kern Tyrone Who durst as well meet death as him alone The plight our Iones appear'd in made none doubt But he had had at least a devilish bout If not with Devils on him each man seeth The fearfull character of nailes and teeth We may not stand to shew what Essex's sense Was on these actions nor the consequence They did import the progresse of this story Hastens our muse to Iones his farther glory Fame these atchievements brings to Englands State Which held the Queen and Councel in debate About this man and all at last suppos'd In policy he 's not to be expos'd To the close dangerous plots of such a foe Who neither values faith nor honour so His mischiefs take successe and thus the State Lose this dear Limbe and then repent too late Some looking deeper into Iones his spirit Knowing he knew too much of his own merit Hold it not safe he should be open to The windy baits of that so subtile foe To gain him to his part whose haughty mind Would soon take fire then could not be confin'd And if by such a plot they should be crost They all conclude that Kingdome were but lost These grounds invite them wholly to decline His warfare there so on some grand design Pretended they invite his quick repaire To Englands Court to act this great affaire Heco mes but leaves his British troops to fight Tyrone to death whose acts who please to write May meet with subjects brave to rant upon But for my self I am quite tyr'd with one And thus transported from the Irish strands At Aberust with a Welch Port he lands Where ere two dayes he fully spent for rest A goodly vessel with crosse winds opprest Comes boyling in Iones by her colours knows She is of Spain his colour comes and goes At sight of hers that such a godly prey Should come as 't were to meet him in his way He musters strait a troop of british lads Who on their mountaine geldings clap