3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 7 of 34
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1595 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 505 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
Oh Clifford, yet bethink thee once again, And in thy mind o'errun my former time: And bite thy tongue that slanderst him with cowardice, Whose very look hath made thee quake are this. I will not bandy with thee word for word, But buckle with thee blows twice two for one. Hold valiant Clifford for a thousand causes, I would prolong the traitor's life a while. Wrath makes him death, speak thou Northumberland. Hold Clifford do not honour him to much, To prick thy finger though to wound his heart: What valour were it when a cur doth grin, For one to thrust his hand between his teeth, When he might spurn him with his foot away? 'tis wars prize to take all advantages, And ten to one, is no impeach in wanes. I, I▪ so strives the Woodcock with the gin. So doth the cunnie struggle with the net. So triumphs thieves upon their conquered Booty: So true men yield by robbers overmatcht. What will your grace have done with him? Brave warriors Clifford & Northumberland Come make him stand upon this molehill here, That armed at mountains with outstretched arm, And parted but the shadow with his hand. Was it you that revelde in our Parliament▪ And made a prechment of your high descent? Where are your mess of sons to back you now? The wanton Edward, and the lusty George? Or where is that valiant Crookbackt prodigy? Dickey your boy, that with his grumbling voice, Was wont to cheer his Dad in mutinies? Or amongst the rest▪ where is your dawning Rutland? Look York? I dipped this napkin in the blood, That valiant Clifford with his rapiers point, Made issue from the bosom of thy boy. And if thine eyes can water for his death, I give thee this to dry thy cheeks with all. Alas poor York: But that I hate thee much, I should lament thy miserable state? I prithee grieve to make me merry York? Stamp▪ rave and fret, that I may sing and dance. What: hath thy fiery heart so parched thine entrails, That not a tear can fall for Rutland's death? Thou wouldst be feed I see to make me sport. York cannot speak, vnlesle he wear a crown. A crown for York? and Lords bow low to him. So: hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on. I, now looks he like a king? This is he that took king Henry's chair, And this is he was his adopted air. But how is it that great Plantagenet, Is crowned so soon, and broke his holy oath, As I bethink me you should not be king, Till our Henry had shook hands with death, And will you empale your head with Henry's glory, And rob his temples of the Diadem Now in his life against your holy oath? Oh 'tis a fault too too unpardonable. Off with the crown, and with the crown his head, And whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.
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)
Oh Clifford, yet bethinke thee once againe, And in thy minde orerun my former time: And bite thy toung that ſlaunderſt him with cowardiſe, Whoſe verie looke hath made thee quake re this. I will not bandie with thee word for word, But buckle with thee blowes twiſe two for one. Hold valiant Clifford for a thouſand cauſes, I would prolong the traitors life a while. Wrath makes him death, ſpeake thou Northumberland. Hold Clifford doe not honour him to much, To pricke thy finger though to wound his hart: What valure were it when a curre doth grin, For one to thruſt his hand betweene his teeth, When he might ſpurne him with his foote awaie? Tis warres priſe to take all aduantages, And ten to one, is no impeach in wanes. I, I▪ ſo ſtriues the Woodcocke with the gin. So doth the cunne ſtruggle with the net. So triumphs theeues vpon their conquered Bootie: So true men yeeld by robbers ouermatcht. What will your grace haue done with him? Braue warriors Clifford & Northumberland Come make him ſtand vpon ths molehill here, That amde at mountaines with outſtetched arme, And parted but the ſhaddow with his hand. Was it you that reuelde in our Parlement▪ And made a prechment of your high deſcent? Where are your meſſe of ſonnes to backe you now? The wanton Edward, and the lſtie George? Or where is that valiant Crookbackt prodegie? Dickey your boy, that with his grumbling voice, Was wont to cheare his Dad in mutines? Or amongſt the reſt▪ where is your daing Rutland? Looke Yorke? I dipt this napkin in the bloud, That valiant Clifford with his rapiers point, Made iſue from the boſome of thy boy. And if thine ees can water for his death, I giue thee this to drie thy cheeks with all. Alas poore Yorke: But that I hate thee much, I ſhould lament thy miſerable ſtate? I prethee greeue to make me merrie Yorke? Stamp▪ raue and fret, that I maie ſing and dance. What: hath thy fierie hart ſo parcht thine entrailes, That not a teare can fall for Rutlands death? Thou wouldſt be feede I ſee to make me ſport. Yorke cannot ſpeake, vnleſle he weare a crowne. A crowne for Yorke? and Lords bow low to him. So: hold you his hands, whilſt I doe ſet it on. I, now lookes he like a king? This is he that tooke king Henries chaire, And this is he was his adopted aire. But how is it that great Plantagenet, Is crownd ſo ſoone, and broke his holie oath, As I bethinke me you ſhould not be king, Till our Henry had ſhooke hands with death, And will you impale your head with Henries glorie, And rob his temples of the Diadem Now in his life againſt your holie oath? Oh tis a fault too too vnpardonable. Off with the crowne, and with the crowne his head, And whilſt we breath, tae time to doe him dead.