3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 6 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho · 507 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
The Queen, With all the Northern Earls and Lords, Intent here to besiege you in your Castle. She is hard by, with twenty thousand men: And therefore fortify your Hold, my Lord. I, with my Sword. What? thinkest thou, that we fear them? Edward and Richard, you shall stay with me, My Brother Montague shall post to London. Let Noble Warwick, Cobham, and the rest, Whom we have left Protectors of the King, With powerful Policy strengthen themselves, And trust not simple Henry, nor his Oaths. Brother, I go: I'll win them, fear it not. And thus most humbly I do take my leave. Sir Iohn, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine Uncles, You are come to Sandal in a happy hour. The Army of the Queen mean to besiege us. She shall not need, we'll meet her in the field. What, with five thousand men? I, with five hundred, Father, for a need. A Woman's general: what should we fear? I hear their Drums: Let's set our men in order, And issue forth, and bid them Battle strait. Five men to twenty: though the odds be great, I doubt not, Uncle, of our Victory. Many a Battle have I won in France, When as the Enemy hath been ten to one: Why should I not now have the like success? Ah, whither shall I fly, to scape their hands? Ah Tutor, look where bloody Clifford comes. Chaplain away, thy Priesthood saves thy life. As for the Brat of this accursed Duke, Whose Father slew my Father, he shall dye. And I, my Lord, will bear him company. Soldiers, away with him. Ah Clifford, murder not this innocent Child, Lest thou be hated both of God and Man. How now? is he dead already? Or is it fear, that makes him close his eyes? I'll open them. So looks the pent-up Lion o'er the Wretch, That trembles under his devouring Paws: And so he walks, insulting o'er his Prey, And so be comes, to rend his Limbs asunder. Ah gentle Clifford, kill me with thy Sword, And not with such a cruel threatening Look. Sweet Clifford hear me speak, before I die: I am too mean a subject for thy Wrath, Be thou revenged on men, and let me live. In vain thou speakest, poor Boy: My Father's blood hath stopped the passage Where thy words should enter. Then let my Father's blood open it again, He is a man, and Clifford cope with him. Had I thy Brethren here, their lives and thine Were not revenge sufficient for me: No, if I digged up thy forefathers' Graves, And hung their rotten Coffins up in Chains, It could not slake mine ire, nor ease my heart. The sight of any of the House of York, Is as a fury to torment my Soul: And till I root out their accursed Line, And leave not one alive, I live in Hell. Therefore— Oh let me pray, before I take my death: To thee I pray; sweet Clifford pity me.
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)
The Queene, With all the Northerne Earles and Lords, Intend here to beſiege you in your Caſtle. She is hard by, with twentie thouſand men: And therefore fortifie your Hold, my Lord. I, with my Sword. What? think'ſt thou, that we feare them? Edward and Richard, you ſhall ſtay with me, My Brother Mountague ſhall poſte to London. Let Noble Warwicke, Cobham, and the reſt, Whom we haue left Protectors of the King, With powrefull Pollicie ſtrengthen themſelues, And truſt not ſimple Henry, nor his Oathes. Brother, I goe: Ile winne them, feare it not. And thus moſt humbly I doe take my leaue. Sir Iohn, and Sir Hugh Mortimer, mine Vnckles, You are come to Sandall in a happie houre. The Armie of the Queene meane to beſiege vs. Shee ſhall not neede, wee'le meete her in the field. What, with fiue thouſand men? I, with fiue hundred, Father, for a neede. A Woman's generall: what ſhould we feare? I heare their Drummes: Let's ſet our men in order, And iſſue forth, and bid them Battaile ſtraight. Fiue men to twentie: though the oddes be great, I doubt not, Vnckle, of our Victorie▪ Many a Battaile haue I wonne in France, When as the Enemie hath beene tenne to one: Why ſhould I not now haue the like ſucceſſe? Ah, whither ſhall I flye, to ſcape their hands? Ah Tutor, looke where bloody Clifford comes. Chaplaine away, thy Prieſthood ſaues thy life. As for the Brat of this accurſed Duke, Whoſe Father ſlew my Father, he ſhall dye. And I, my Lord, will beare him company. Souldiers, away with him. Ah Clifford, murther not this innocent Child, Leaſt thou be hated both of God and Man. How now? is he dead alreadie? Or is it feare, that makes him cloſe his eyes? Ile open them. So looks the pent-vp Lyon o're the Wretch, That trembles vnder his deuouring Pawes: And ſo he walkes, inſulting o're his Prey, And ſo be comes, to rend his Limbes aſunder. Ah gentle Clifford, kill me with thy Sword, And not with ſuch a cruell threatning Looke. Sweet Clifford heare me ſpeake, before I dye: I am too meane a ſubiect for thy Wrath, Be thou reueng'd on men, and let me liue. In vaine thou ſpeak'ſt, poore Boy: My Fathers blood hath ſtopt the paſſage Where thy words ſhould enter. Then let my Fathers blood open it againe, He is a man, and Clifford cope with him. Had I thy Brethren here, their liues and thine Were not reuenge ſufficient for me: No, if I digg'd vp thy fore-fathers Graues, And hung their rotten Coffins vp in Chaynes, It could not ſlake mine ire, nor eaſe my heart. The ſight of any of the Houſe of Yorke, Is as a furie to torment my Soule: And till I root out their accurſed Line, And leaue not one aliue, I liue in Hell. Therefore— Oh let me pray, before I take my death: To thee I pray; ſweet Clifford pitty me.