3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 16 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 · 494 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.
Oh gracious God of heaven look down on us, And set some ends to these incessant griefs, How like a mastless ship upon the seas, This woeful battle doth continue still, Now leaning this way, now to that side drive, And none doth know to whom the day will fall. O would my death might stay these civilliars! Would I had never rained, nor near been king. Margaret and Clifford, chide me from the field, Swearing they had best success when I was thence. Would God that I were dead so all were well, Or would my crown suffice, I were content To yield it them and live a private life. Il blows the wind that profits no body, This man that I have slain in fight to day, May be possessed of some store of crowns, And I will search to find them if I can, But stay. Me thinks it is my father's face, Oh I 'tis he whom I have slain in fight, From London was I priest out by the king, My father he came on the part of York, And in this conflict I have slain my father: Oh pardon God, I knew not what I did, And pardon father, for I knew thee not. Lie there thou that foughtst with me so stoutly, Now let me see what store of gold thou haste, But stay, me thinks this is no famous face: Oh no it is my son that I have slain in sight, O monstrous times begetting such events, How cruel bloody, and ironious, This deadly quarrel daily doth beget, Poor boy thy father gave thee life too late, And hath bereaved thee of thy life too soon. woe above woe, grief more than common grief, Whilst lions war and battle for their dens, Poor lambs do feel the rigour of their wraths: The red rose and the white are on his face, The fatal colours of our striving houses, Whither one rose, and let the other flourish, For if you strive, ten thousand lives must perish. How will my mother for my father's death, Take on with me and near be satisfied? How will my wife for slaughter of my son, Take on with me and near be satisfied? How will the people now misdeem their king, Oh would my death their minds could satisfy. Was ever son so rude his father's blood to spill? Was ever father so unnatural his son to kill? Was ever king thus grieved and vexed still? I'll bear thee hence from this accursed place, For woe is me to see my father's face. I'll bear thee hence & let them fight that will, For I have murdered where I should not kill. Weep wretched man, I'll lay thee tear for tear, Here sits a king as woebegone as thee. Away my Lord to Berwick presently, The day 〈…〉, our friends are murdered, No hope is left for us, therefore away▪
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 gratious God of heauen looke downe on vs, And ſet ſome endes to theſe inceſſant griefes, How like a maſtleſſe ſhip vpon the ſeas, This woful battaile doth continue ſtill, Now leaning this way, now to that ſide driue, And none doth know to whom the daie will fall. O would my death might ſtaie theſe ciuilliars! Would I had neuer raind, nor nere bin king. Margret and Clifford, chide me from the fielde, Swearing they had beſt ſucceſſe when I was thence. Would God that I were dead ſo all were well, Or would my crowne ſuffice, I were content To yeeld it them and liue a priuate life. Il blowes the wind that profits no bodie, This man that I haue ſlaine in fight to daie, Maie be poſſeſſed of ſome ſtore of crownes, And I will ſearch to find them if I can, But ſtay. Me thinkes it is my fathers face, Oh I tis he whom I haue ſlaine in fight, From London was I preſt out by the king, My father he came on the part of Yorke, And in this conflict I haue ſlaine my father: Oh pardon God, I knew not what I did, And pardon father, for I knew thee not. Lie there thou that foughtſt with me ſo ſtoutly, Now let me ſee what ſtore of gold thou haſte, But ſtaie, me thinkes this is no famous face: Oh no it is my ſonne that I haue ſlaine in ſight, O monſtrous times begetting ſuch euents, How cruel bloudy, and ironious, This deadlie quarrell dailie doth beget, Poore boy thy fther gaue thee lif too late, And hath breau'de thee of thy life too ſone. Wo aboue wo, griefe more then common grieſe, Whilſt Lyons warre and battaile for their dens, Poore lambs do feele the rigor of their wraths: The red roſe and the white are on his face, The fatall colours of our ſtriuing houſes, Wither one roſe, and let the other flouriſh, For if you ſtriue, ten thouſand liues muſt periſh. How will my mother for my fathers death, Take on with me and nere be ſatisfide? How will my wife for ſlaughter of my ſon, Take on with me and nere be ſatisfide? How will the people now miſdeeme their king, Oh would my death their mindes could ſatisfie. Was euer ſon ſo rude his fathers bloud to ſpil? Was euer father ſo vnnaturall his ſon to kill? Was euer king thus greeud and vexed ſtill? Ile beare thee hence from this accurſed place, For wo is me to ſee my fathers face. Ile beare thee hence & let them fight that wil, For I haue murdered where I ſhould not kill. Weepe wretched man, Ile lay thee teare for tear, Here ſits a king as woe begone as thee. Awaie my Lord to Barwicke preſentlie, The daie , our friends are murdered, No hope is left for vs, therefore awaie▪