3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 33 of 34
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1595 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men T29 Disguise and pursuit in Look About You typicality 0.81 · 477 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T29: gloster, faukenbridge, skinke, hermit, richard, prince, iohn, porter, henry, brother.
Take that, the litnes of this railer here. Oh kill me too. Marry and shall. Hold Richard hold, for we have done too much already. Why should she live to fill the world with words? What doth she swoon: make means for Her recovery? Clarence, excuse me to the king my brother, I must to London on a serious matter, Ere you come there▪ you shall hear more news. About what, prithee tell me? The Towerman, the Tower, I'll root them out Ah Ned, speak to thy mother boy? ah Thou canst not speak. Traitors, Tyrants, bloody Homicides, They that stabbed Caesar shed no blood at all, For he was a man, this in respect a child, And men near spend then fury on a child, What's worse than tyrant that I may name, You have no children Devils, if you had, The thought of them would then have stopped your rage, But if you ever hope to have a son, Look in his youth to have him so cut off, As Traitors you have done this sweet young prince. Away, and bear her hence. Nay near bear me hence, dispatch Me here, here sheathe thy sword, I'll pardon thee my death. Wilt thou not? Then Clarence, do thou do it? By Heaven I would not do thee so much ease. Good Clarence do, sweet Clarence kill me too. Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it? I, but thou usest to forswear thyself, TTwas sin before, but now 'tis charity. Wheats the devils butcher, hardfavored Richard, Richard where art thou? He is not here, Murder is his alms deed, petitioners For blood he near put back. Away I say, and take her hence perforce. So come to you and yours, as to this prince. Clarence, whither's Gloster gone? Marry my Lord to London, and as I guess, to Make a bloody supper in the Tower. He is sudden if a thing come in his head. Well, discharge the common soldiers with pay And thanks, and now let us towards London, To see our gentle Queen how she doth far, For by this I hope she hath a son for us. Good day my Lord. What at your book so hard? I my good Lord. Lord I should say rather, 'tis sin to flatter, good was little better, Good Gloster, and good Devil, were all alike, What scene of Death hath Rosius now to act? Suspicion always haunts a guilty mind. The bird once limed doth fear the fatal bush, And I the hapless mail to one poor bird, Have now the fatal object in mine eye, Where my poor young was limed, was caught & killed. Why, what a fool was that of Creede? That taught his son the office Of a bird, and yet for all that the poor Fowl was drowned.
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 1940–2000 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 33 of 34 in this edition
Length
477 words · 624 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T29 — Disguise and pursuit in Look About Youcontext only — excluded from the genre comparison · typicality 0.807 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T34 · seed 44: T31 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Take that, the litnes of this railer heere. Oh kill me too. Marrie and ſhall. Hold Richard hold, for we haue doone too much alreadie. Why ſhould ſhe liue to fill the world with words? What doth ſhe ſwound: make meanes for Her recouerie? Clarence, excuſe me to the king my brother, I muſt to London on a ſerious matter, Ere you come there▪ you ſhall heare more newes. About what, prethe tell me? The Towerman, the Tower, Ile root them out Ah Ned, ſpeake to thy mother boy? ah Thou canſt not ſpeake. Traytors, Tyrants, bloudie Homicides, They that ſtabd Caeſar ſhed no bloud at all, For he was a man, this in reſpect a childe, And men nere ſpend then furie on a child, Whats worſe then tyrant that I maie name, You haue no children Deuils, if you had, The thought of them would then haue ſtopt your rage, But if you euer hope to haue a ſonne, Looke in his youth to haue him ſo cut off, As Traitors you haue doone this ſweet young prine. Awaie, and beare her hence. Naie nere beare me hence, diſpatch Me heere, heere ſheath thy ſword, Ile pardon thee my death. Wilt thou not? Then Clarence, doe thou doe it? By Heauen I would not doe thee ſo much eaſe. Good Clarence doe, ſweet Clarence kill me too. Didſt thou not heare me ſweare I would not do it? I, but thou vſeſt to forſweare thy ſelfe, Twas ſinne before, but now tis charitie. Wheas the Diuels butcher, hardfauored Richard, Richard where art thou? He is not heere, Murder is his almes deed, petitioners For bloud he nere put backe. Awaie I ſaie, and take her hence perforce. So come to you and yours, as to this prince. Clarence, whithers Gloſter gone? Marrie my Lord to London, and as I geſſe, to Make a bloudie ſupper in the Tower. He is ſudden if a thing come in his head. Well, diſcharge the common ſouldiers with paie And thankes, and now let vs towards London, To ſee our gentle Queene how ſhee doth fare, For by this I hope ſhee hath a ſonne for vs. Good day my Lord. What at your booke ſo hard? I my good Lord. Lord I ſhould ſaie rather, Tis ſinne to flatter, good was little better, Good Gloſter, and good Diuell, were all alike, What ſcene of Death hath Roſius now to act? Suſpition alwaies haunts a guiltie mind. The birde once limde doth feare the fatall buſh, And I the hapleſſe maile to one poore birde, Haue now the fatall obiect in mine eie, Where my poore young was limde, was caught & kild. Why, what a foole was that of Creee? That taught his ſonne the office Of a birde, and yet for all that the poore Fowle was drownde.