3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 15 of 34
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1595 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T1 Death, grief and revenge · 485 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Sore spent with toil as runners with the race, I lay me down a little while to breath, For strokes received, and many blows repaid, Hath robbed my strong knit sinews of their strength, And force perforce needs must I rest myself. Smile gentle heavens or strike ungentle death, That we may die unless we gain the day: What fatal star malignant frowns from heaven Upon the harmless line of York's TRUE house? Come brother, come, let's to the field again, For yet there's hope enough to win the day: Then let us back to cheer our fainting Troops, Lest they retire now we have left the field. How now my lords: what hap, what hope of good▪ Ah Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself? Thy noble father in the thickest throngs, Cried still for Warwick his thrice valiant son, Until with thousand swords he was beset, And many wounds made in his aged breast, And as he tottering sat upon his sleede, He wa●t his hand to me and cried aloud▪ Richard, commend me to my valiant son, And still he cried Warwick revenge my death, And with those words he tumbled off his horse, And so the noble Salisbury gave up the ghost. Then let the earth be drunken with his blood, I'll kill my horse because I will not she: And here to God of heaven I make a vow, Never to pass from forth this bloody field Till I am full revenged for his death. Lord Warwick, Idle bend my knees with thine, And in that vow now join my soul to thee, Thou setter up and puller down of kings, vouchsafe a gentle victory to us, Or let us die before we lose the day: Then let us haste to cheer the soldiers hearts, And call them pillars that will stand to us, And highly promise to remunerate Their trusty service, in these dangerous wars. Come, come away, and stand not to debate, For yet is hope of fortune good enough. Brothers, give me your hands, and let us part And take our leaves until we meet again, Where ere it be in heaven or in earth. Now I that never wept, now melt in woe, To see these dire mishaps continue so. Warwick farewell. Away away, once more sweet Lords farewell. A Clifford a Clifford. A Richard a Richard. Now Clifford, for York & young Rutland's death, This thirsty sword that longs to drink thy blood, Shall lop thy limbs, and slice thy cursed heart, For to revenge the murders thou hast made. Now Richard, I am with thee here alone, This is the hand that stabbed thy father York▪ And this the hand that slew thy brother Rutland, And here's the heart that triumphs in there deaths, And cheers these hands that slew thy 〈◊〉 and brother, To execute the like upon thyself, And so have at thee.
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)
Sore ſpent with toile as runners with the race, I laie me downe a little while to breath, For ſtrokes receiude, and manie blowes repaide, Hath robd my ſtrong knit ſinnews of their ſtrength, And force perforce needes muſt I reſt my ſelfe. Smile gentle heauens or ſtrike vngentle death, That we maie die vnleſſe we gaine the daie: What fatall ſtarre malignant frownes from heauen Vpon the harmeleſſe line of Yorkes tue houſe? Come brother, come, lets to the field againe, For yet theres hope inough to win the daie: Then let vs backe to cheere our fainting Troupes, Leſt they retire now we haue left the field. How now my lords: what hap, what hope of good▪ Ah Warwike, why haſte thou withdrawne thy ſelfe? Thy noble father in the thickeſt thronges, Cride ſtill for Warwike his thriſe valiant ſon, Vntill with thouſand ſwords he was beſet, And manie wounds made in hs aged breſt, And as he tottering ſate vpon his ſleede, He wat his hand to me and cride aloud▪ Richard, commend me to my valiant ſonne, And ſtll he cride Warwike reuenge my death, And with thoſe words he tumbled off his horſe, And ſo the noble Salsbury gaue vp the ghoſt. hen let the earth be drunken with his bloud, Ile kill my horſe becauſe I wil not ſhe: And here to God of heauen I make a vow, Neuer to paſſe from frth this bloudy field Till I am full reuenged for his death. Lord Warwike, Ide bend my knees with thine, And in that vow now ioine my ſoule to thee, Thou ſetter vp and puller downe of kings, vouchſafe a gentle victorie to vs, Or let vs die before we looſe the daie: Then let vs haſte to cheere the ſouldiers hrts, And call them pillers that will ſtand to vs, And hiely promiſe to remunerate Their truſtie ſeruice, in theſe dangerous warres. Come, come awaie, and ſtand not to debate, For yet is hope of fortune good enough. Brothers, giue me your hands, and let vs part And take our leaues vntill we meet againe, Where ere it be in heauen or in earth. Now I that neuer wept, now melt in wo, To ſee theſe dire miſhaps continue ſo. Warwike farewel. Awaie awaie, once more ſweet Lords farewell. A Clifford a Clifford. A Richard a Richard. Now Clifford, for Yorke & young Rutlands death, This thirſty ſword that longs to drinke thy bloud, Shall lop thy limmes, and ſliſe thy curſed hart, For to reuenge the murders thou haſt made. Now Richard, I am with thee here alone, This is the hand that ſtabd thy father Yorke▪ And this the hand that ſlew thy brother Rutland, And heres the heart that triumphs in the dthes, And cheeres theſe hands that ſlew thy and brother, To execute the like vpon thy ſelfe, And ſo haue at thee.