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update new script counting character
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‎CountMillionCharacter.py

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import pprint
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info = '''SCENE I. Yorkshire. Gaultree Forest.
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Enter the ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, MOWBRAY, LORD HASTINGS, and others
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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What is this forest call'd?
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HASTINGS
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'Tis Gaultree Forest, an't shall please your grace.
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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Here stand, my lords; and send discoverers forth
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To know the numbers of our enemies.
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HASTINGS
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We have sent forth already.
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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'Tis well done.
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My friends and brethren in these great affairs,
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I must acquaint you that I have received
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New-dated letters from Northumberland;
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Their cold intent, tenor and substance, thus:
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Here doth he wish his person, with such powers
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As might hold sortance with his quality,
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The which he could not levy; whereupon
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He is retired, to ripe his growing fortunes,
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To Scotland: and concludes in hearty prayers
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That your attempts may overlive the hazard
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And fearful melting of their opposite.
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MOWBRAY
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Thus do the hopes we have in him touch ground
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And dash themselves to pieces.
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Enter a Messenger
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HASTINGS
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Now, what news?
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Messenger
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West of this forest, scarcely off a mile,
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In goodly form comes on the enemy;
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And, by the ground they hide, I judge their number
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Upon or near the rate of thirty thousand.
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MOWBRAY
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The just proportion that we gave them out
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Let us sway on and face them in the field.
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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What well-appointed leader fronts us here?
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Enter WESTMORELAND
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MOWBRAY
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I think it is my Lord of Westmoreland.
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WESTMORELAND
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Health and fair greeting from our general,
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The prince, Lord John and Duke of Lancaster.
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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Say on, my Lord of Westmoreland, in peace:
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What doth concern your coming?
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WESTMORELAND
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Then, my lord,
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Unto your grace do I in chief address
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The substance of my speech. If that rebellion
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Came like itself, in base and abject routs,
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Led on by bloody youth, guarded with rags,
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And countenanced by boys and beggary,
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I say, if damn'd commotion so appear'd,
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In his true, native and most proper shape,
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You, reverend father, and these noble lords
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Had not been here, to dress the ugly form
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Of base and bloody insurrection
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With your fair honours. You, lord archbishop,
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Whose see is by a civil peace maintained,
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Whose beard the silver hand of peace hath touch'd,
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Whose learning and good letters peace hath tutor'd,
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Whose white investments figure innocence,
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The dove and very blessed spirit of peace,
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Wherefore do you so ill translate ourself
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Out of the speech of peace that bears such grace,
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Into the harsh and boisterous tongue of war;
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Turning your books to graves, your ink to blood,
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Your pens to lances and your tongue divine
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To a trumpet and a point of war?
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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Wherefore do I this? so the question stands.
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Briefly to this end: we are all diseased,
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And with our surfeiting and wanton hours
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Have brought ourselves into a burning fever,
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And we must bleed for it; of which disease
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Our late king, Richard, being infected, died.
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But, my most noble Lord of Westmoreland,
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I take not on me here as a physician,
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Nor do I as an enemy to peace
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Troop in the throngs of military men;
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But rather show awhile like fearful war,
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To diet rank minds sick of happiness
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And purge the obstructions which begin to stop
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Our very veins of life. Hear me more plainly.
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I have in equal balance justly weigh'd
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What wrongs our arms may do, what wrongs we suffer,
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And find our griefs heavier than our offences.
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We see which way the stream of time doth run,
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And are enforced from our most quiet there
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By the rough torrent of occasion;
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And have the summary of all our griefs,
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When time shall serve, to show in articles;
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Which long ere this we offer'd to the king,
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And might by no suit gain our audience:
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When we are wrong'd and would unfold our griefs,
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We are denied access unto his person
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Even by those men that most have done us wrong.
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The dangers of the days but newly gone,
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Whose memory is written on the earth
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With yet appearing blood, and the examples
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Of every minute's instance, present now,
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Hath put us in these ill-beseeming arms,
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Not to break peace or any branch of it,
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But to establish here a peace indeed,
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Concurring both in name and quality.
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WESTMORELAND
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When ever yet was your appeal denied?
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Wherein have you been galled by the king?
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What peer hath been suborn'd to grate on you,
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That you should seal this lawless bloody book
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Of forged rebellion with a seal divine
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And consecrate commotion's bitter edge?
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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My brother general, the commonwealth,
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To brother born an household cruelty,
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I make my quarrel in particular.
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WESTMORELAND
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There is no need of any such redress;
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Or if there were, it not belongs to you.
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MOWBRAY
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Why not to him in part, and to us all
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That feel the bruises of the days before,
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And suffer the condition of these times
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To lay a heavy and unequal hand
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Upon our honours?
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WESTMORELAND
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O, my good Lord Mowbray,
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Construe the times to their necessities,
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And you shall say indeed, it is the time,
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And not the king, that doth you injuries.
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Yet for your part, it not appears to me
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Either from the king or in the present time
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That you should have an inch of any ground
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To build a grief on: were you not restored
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To all the Duke of Norfolk's signories,
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Your noble and right well remember'd father's?
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MOWBRAY
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What thing, in honour, had my father lost,
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That need to be revived and breathed in me?
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The king that loved him, as the state stood then,
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Was force perforce compell'd to banish him:
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And then that Harry Bolingbroke and he,
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Being mounted and both roused in their seats,
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Their neighing coursers daring of the spur,
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Their armed staves in charge, their beavers down,
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Their eyes of fire sparking through sights of steel
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And the loud trumpet blowing them together,
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Then, then, when there was nothing could have stay'd
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My father from the breast of Bolingbroke,
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O when the king did throw his warder down,
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His own life hung upon the staff he threw;
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Then threw he down himself and all their lives
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That by indictment and by dint of sword
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Have since miscarried under Bolingbroke.
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WESTMORELAND
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You speak, Lord Mowbray, now you know not what.
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The Earl of Hereford was reputed then
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In England the most valiant gentlemen:
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Who knows on whom fortune would then have smiled?
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But if your father had been victor there,
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He ne'er had borne it out of Coventry:
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For all the country in a general voice
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Cried hate upon him; and all their prayers and love
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Were set on Hereford, whom they doted on
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And bless'd and graced indeed, more than the king.
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But this is mere digression from my purpose.
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Here come I from our princely general
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To know your griefs; to tell you from his grace
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That he will give you audience; and wherein
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It shall appear that your demands are just,
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You shall enjoy them, every thing set off
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That might so much as think you enemies.
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MOWBRAY
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But he hath forced us to compel this offer;
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And it proceeds from policy, not love.
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WESTMORELAND
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Mowbray, you overween to take it so;
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This offer comes from mercy, not from fear:
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For, lo! within a ken our army lies,
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Upon mine honour, all too confident
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To give admittance to a thought of fear.
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Our battle is more full of names than yours,
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Our men more perfect in the use of arms,
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Our armour all as strong, our cause the best;
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Then reason will our heart should be as good
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Say you not then our offer is compell'd.
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MOWBRAY
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Well, by my will we shall admit no parley.
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WESTMORELAND
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That argues but the shame of your offence:
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A rotten case abides no handling.
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HASTINGS
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Hath the Prince John a full commission,
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In very ample virtue of his father,
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To hear and absolutely to determine
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Of what conditions we shall stand upon?
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WESTMORELAND
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That is intended in the general's name:
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I muse you make so slight a question.
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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Then take, my Lord of Westmoreland, this schedule,
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For this contains our general grievances:
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Each several article herein redress'd,
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All members of our cause, both here and hence,
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That are insinew'd to this action,
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Acquitted by a true substantial form
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And present execution of our wills
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To us and to our purposes confined,
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We come within our awful banks again
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And knit our powers to the arm of peace.
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WESTMORELAND
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This will I show the general. Please you, lords,
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In sight of both our battles we may meet;
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And either end in peace, which God so frame!
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Or to the place of difference call the swords
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Which must decide it.
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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My lord, we will do so.
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Exit WESTMORELAND
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MOWBRAY
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There is a thing within my bosom tells me
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That no conditions of our peace can stand.
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HASTINGS
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Fear you not that: if we can make our peace
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Upon such large terms and so absolute
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As our conditions shall consist upon,
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Our peace shall stand as firm as rocky mountains.
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MOWBRAY
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Yea, but our valuation shall be such
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That every slight and false-derived cause,
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Yea, every idle, nice and wanton reason
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Shall to the king taste of this action;
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That, were our royal faiths martyrs in love,
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We shall be winnow'd with so rough a wind
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That even our corn shall seem as light as chaff
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And good from bad find no partition.
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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No, no, my lord. Note this; the king is weary
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Of dainty and such picking grievances:
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For he hath found to end one doubt by death
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Revives two greater in the heirs of life,
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And therefore will he wipe his tables clean
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And keep no tell-tale to his memory
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That may repeat and history his loss
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To new remembrance; for full well he knows
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He cannot so precisely weed this land
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As his misdoubts present occasion:
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His foes are so enrooted with his friends
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That, plucking to unfix an enemy,
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He doth unfasten so and shake a friend:
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So that this land, like an offensive wife
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That hath enraged him on to offer strokes,
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As he is striking, holds his infant up
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And hangs resolved correction in the arm
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That was uprear'd to execution.
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HASTINGS
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Besides, the king hath wasted all his rods
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On late offenders, that he now doth lack
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The very instruments of chastisement:
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So that his power, like to a fangless lion,
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May offer, but not hold.
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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'Tis very true:
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And therefore be assured, my good lord marshal,
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If we do now make our atonement well,
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Our peace will, like a broken limb united,
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Grow stronger for the breaking.
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MOWBRAY
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Be it so.
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Here is return'd my Lord of Westmoreland.
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Re-enter WESTMORELAND
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WESTMORELAND
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The prince is here at hand: pleaseth your lordship
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To meet his grace just distance 'tween our armies.
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MOWBRAY
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Your grace of York, in God's name then, set forward.
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ARCHBISHOP OF YORK
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Before, and greet his grace: my lord, we come.
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Exeunt'''
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count = { }
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for character in info.upper():
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count.setdefault(character, 0)
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count[character] = count[character]+1
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value = pprint.pformat(count)
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print(value)

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