3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 8 of 34
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1595 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 484 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
That's my office for my father's death. Yet stay: & let's here the Orisons he makes. She wolf of France, but worse than Wolves of France: Whose tongue more poisoned than the Adder's tooth: How ill beseeming is it in thy sex, To triumph like an Amazonian trull Upon his woes, whom Fortune captivates? But that thy face is vizard like, unchanging, Made impudent by use of evil deeds: I would assay, proud Queen to make thee blush: To tell thee of whence thou art, from whom derived, TTwere shame enough to shame thee, wert thou not shameless. Thy father bears the type of king of Naples, Of both the Siss●les and Ierusalem, Yet not so wealthy as an English yeoman. Hath that poor Monarch taught thee to insult? It needs not, or it boots thee not proud Queen, Unless the Adage must be verified: That beggars mounted, run their horse to death. 'tis beauty, that oft makes women proud, But God he wots thy share thereof is small. 'tis government, that makes them most admired, The contrary doth make thee wondered at. 'tis virtue that makes them seem divine. The want thereof makes thee abominable. Thou art as opposite to every good, As the Antipodes are unto us, Or as the south to the Septentrion. Oh Tigers heart wrapped in a woman's hide? How couldst thou drain the life blood of the child, To bid the father wipe his eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a woman's face? Women are mild, pitiful, and flexible. Thou indurate, stern, rough, remorseless. Bids thou me rage? why now thou hast thy will Wouldst have me weep? why so thou hast thy wish. For raging winds blows up a storm of tears, And when the rage allied the rain begins. These tears are my sweet Rutland's obsequies, And every drop begs vengeance as it falls, On thee fell Clifford, and the false French woman. Beshrew me but his passions move me so, As hardly can I check mine eyes from tears. That face of his the hungry Cannibals Can not have touched, would not have stained with blood But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, O ten times more than Tugers of Arcadia. See ruthless Queen a hapless father's tears. This cloth thou dipts in blood of my sweet boy, And lo with tears I wash the blood away. Keep thou the napkin and go boast of that, And if thou tell the heavy story well, Upon my soul the hearers will she'd tears, I, even my so's will she'd fast falling tears, And say, alas, it was a piteous deed. Here, take the crown, and with the crown my curse, And in thy need such comfort come to thee, As now I reap at thy two cruel hands. Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the world, My soul to heaven, my blood upon your heads.
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)
Thats my office for my fathers death. Yet ſtay: & lets here the Oriſons he makes. She wolfe of France, but worſe than Wolues of France: Whoſe tongue more poiſon'd than the Adders tooth: How ill beſeeming is it in thy sexe, To triumph like an Amazonian trull Vpon his woes, whom Fortune captiuates? But that thy face is viſard like, vnchanging, Made impudent by vſe of euill deeds: I would aſſaie, proud Queene to make thee bluſh: To tell thee of whence thou art, from whom deride, Twere ſhame enough to ſhame thee, wert thou not ſhameleſſe. Thy father beares the type of king of Naples, Of both the Siſsles and Ieruſalem, Yet not ſo wealthie as an Engliſh yeoman. Hath that poore Monarch taught thee to inſult? It needes not, or it bootes thee not proud Queene, Vnleſſe the Adage muſt be ver de: That beggers munted, run their horſe to death. Tis beautie, that oft makes women proud, But God he wots thy ſare thereof is ſmall. Tis gouernmnt, that makes them moſt admirde, The contrarie doth make thee wondred at. Tis vertue that makes them ſeeme deuine. The want thereof makes thee abhominable. Thou art as oppoſite to euerie good, As the Antipodes are vnto vs, Or as the ſouth to the Septentrion. Oh Tygers hart wrapt in a womans hide? Hovv couldſt thou draine the life bloud of the childe, To bid the father wie his eies withall, And yet be ſeene to beare a womans face? Women are milde, pittifull, and flexible. Thou indurate, ſterne, rough, rmorceleſſe. Bids thou me rage? why novv thou haſt thy vvill Wouldſt haue me weepe? vvhy ſo thou haſt thy vviſh. For raging windes blowes vp a ſtorme of teares, And when the rage alie the raine begins. Theſe teares are my ſweet Rutlands obſequies, And euerie drop bgs vengeance as it fals, On thee fell Clifford, and the falſe French woman. Beſhrevv me but his paſſions moue me ſo, As hardlie can I checke mine eies from teares. That fac of his the hungrie Cannibals Could not haue tucht, would not haue ſtaind with bloud But you are more inhumaine, more inexorable, O ten times more then Tvgers of Arcadia. See ruthleſſe Queene a hapleſſe fathers teares. This cloth thou dipts in bloud of my ſweet boy, And loe with teares I waſh the bloud awaie. Keepe thou the napkin and go boaſt of that, And if thou tell the heauie ſtorie well, Vpon my ſoule the hearers will ſheed teares, I, euen my ſoes will ſheed faſt falling teares, And ſaie, alas, it was a pitteous deed. Here, take the crowne, and with the crowne my curſe, And in thy need ſuch comfort come to thee, As now I reape at thy tvvo cruell hands. Hard-harted Clifford, take me from the world, My ſoule to heauen, my bloud vpon your heads.