3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 9 of 34
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1595 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.75 · 489 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Had he been slaughterman of all my kin, I could not choose but weep with him to see, How inly anger gripes his heart. What weeping ripe, my Lord Northumberland? Think but upon the wrong he did us all. And that will quickly dry your melting tears. there's for my oath there's for my father's death. And there's to right our gentle hearted kind. Open thy gates of mercy gracious God, My soul flies forth to meet with thee. Off with his head and set it on York Gates, So York may overlook the town of York. After this dangerous fight and hapless war, How doth my noble brother Richard far? I cannot joy until I be resolved, Where our ●●ght valiant father is become. H●● 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 I see him bear himself, As 〈…〉 didst a heard of neat, So 〈…〉 our valiant father, Me thinks 'tis 〈◊〉 enough to be his son. the 〈◊〉 opes her golden gates, And takes her farewell of the glorious sun, Da doe I see three suns? Three glorious suns, 〈◊〉 separated by a racking Cloud, but 〈◊〉 in a pale clear shining sky. they join, embrace, and seem to kiss. vowed some league inviolate: are they but one lamp, one light, one sun, In this the heavens doth figure some event. I think it cities us brother to the field, That we the sons of brave Plantagenet, Already each one shining by his meed, May join in one and overpeere the world, As this the earth, and therefore hence forward, I'll bear upon my Target, three fair shining suns. But what art thou? that lookest so heavily? Oh one that was a woeful looker on, When as the noble Duke of York was slain. O speak no more, for I can hear no more. Tell on thy tale, for I will hear it all. When as the noble Duke was put to slight, And then pursued by Clifford and the Queen, And many soldiers m●●:, who all at once Let drive at him and forced the Duke to yield: And then they set him on a molehill there, And crowned the gracious Duke in high despite, Who then with tears began to wail his fall. The 〈◊〉 Queene believing he did weep, Gave him a handkerchief to wipe his eyes, D●pt in the blood of sweet young Rutland By rough Clifford slain: who weeping took it up. Then through his breast they thrust their bloody swords, Who like a lamb fell at the butcher's feet. Then on the gates of York they set his head, And there it doth remain the piteous spectacle That ere mine eyes beheld. Sweet Duke of York our prop to lean upon, Now thou art gone there is no hope for us: Now my soul's palace is become a prison. Oh would she break from compass of my breast, For never shall I have more joy.
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William
Publication year (edition)
1595
First performance / composition (Annals)
c.1591
First performance (BritDrama)
1591 [1587-1592]
Company (BritDrama)
Pembroke's Men
Genre (British Drama)
history
Play type
Adult Professional;Professional
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 265 · TCP A10726 · DEEP 212
Edition role
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 483–543 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 9 of 34 in this edition
Length
489 words · 648 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T0 — Court life: dukes, favour and honourcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.749 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T0 · seed 44: T0 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Had he bin ſlaughterman of all my kin, I could not chuſe but weepe with him to ſee, How inlie anger gripes his hart. What weeping ripe, my Lorde Northumberland? Thinke but vpon the wrong he did vs all. And that will quicklie drie your melting tears. Thears for my oath thears for my fathers death. And thears to right our gentle harted kind. Open thy gates of mercie gratious God, My ſoule flies foorth to meet with thee. Off with his head and ſet it on Yorke Gates, So Yorke maie ouerlooke the towne of Yorke. After this dangerous fight and hapleſſe warre, Ho doth my noble brother Richard fare? I cannot ioy vnil I be reſolu'de, Where our ght valiant father is become. H I ſee him beare himſelfe, As idſt a heard of neat, So our valiant father, Me thinkes tis enough to be his ſonne. the opes her golden gates, And takes her farewell of the glorious ſun, Da doe I ſee three ſuns? Three glorious suns, ſeperated by a racking Cloud, but in a pale cleere ſhining skie. they ioine, embrace, and ſeeme to kiſe. vowde ſome league inuiolate: are they but one lampe, one light, one ſun, In this the heauens doth figure ſome euent. I thinke it cites vs brother to the field, That we the ſonnes of braue Plantagenet, Alreadie each one ſhining by his meed, May ioine in one and ouerpeere the world, As this the earth, and therefore hence forward, Ile beare vpon my Target, three faire ſhining ſuns. But what art thou? that lookeſt ſo heauilie? Oh one that was a wofull looker on, When as the noble Duke of Yorke was ſlaine. O ſpeake no more, for I can heare no more. Tell on thy tale, for I will heare it all. When as the noble Duke was put to ſlight, And then purſu'de by Clifford and the Queene, And manie ſouldiers m:, who all at once Let driue at him and forſt the Duke to yeeld: And then they ſet him on a molehill there, And crownd the gratious Duke in high deſpite, Who then with ares began to waile his fall. The Queene euing he did weepe, Gaue hm a handkercher to wipe his eies, Dpt in the bloud of ſweet young Rutland By rough Clifford ſline: who weeping tooke it vp. Then through hs breſt they thruſt their bloudy ſwordes, Who like a lmbe fell at the butchers feete. Then on the gates of Yorke they ſet his head, And there it doth remaine the piteous ſpectacle That ere mine eies beheld. Sweet Duke of Yorke our prop to leane vpon, Now thou art gone there is no hope for vs: Now my ſoules pallace is become a priſon. Oh would ſhe breake from compaſe of my breaſt, For neuer ſhall I haue more ioie.