3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 7 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T46 Swords, quarrels and valour · 509 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T46: rapier, sword, fight, gentlemen, gentleman, kicked, kill, dagger, signor, valour.
Such pity as my Rapier's point affords. I never did thee harm: why wilt thou slay me? Thy Father hath. But 'twas ere I was borne. Thou hast one Son, for his sake pity me, Lest in revenge thereof, sith God is just, He be as miserably slain as I. Ah, let me live in Prison all my days, And when I give occasion of offence, Then let me dye, for now thou hast no cause. No cause? thy Father slew my Father: therefore dye. Dij faciant laudis summa sit ista tuae. Plantagenet, I come Plantagenet: And this thy Son's blood cleaving to my Blade, Shall rust upon my Weapon, till thy blood Congealed with this, do make me wipe off both. The Army of the Queen hath got the field: My uncle's both are slain, in rescuing me; And all my followers, to the eager foe Turn back, and fly, like Ships before the Wind, Or Lambs pursued by hunger-starved Wolves. My Sons, God knows what hath bechanced them: But this I know, they have demeaned themselves Like men borne to Renown, by Life or Death. Three times did Richard make a Lane to me, And thrice cried, Courage Father, fight it out: And full as oft came Edward to my side, With Purple Falchion, painted to the Hilt, In blood of those that had encountered him: And when the hardyest Warriors did retire, Richard cried, Charge, and give no foot of ground, And cried, A Crown, or else a glorious Tomb, A Sceptre, or an Earthly Sepulchre. With this we charged again: but out alas, We bodged again, as I have seen a Swan With bootless labour swim against the Tide, And spend her strength with over-matching Waves. Ah hark, the fatal followers do pursue, And I am faint, and cannot fly their fury: And were I strong, I would not shun their fury. The Sands are numbered, that makes up my Life, Here must I stay, and here my Life must end. Come bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchless fury to more rage: I am your Butt, and I abide your Shot. Yield to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. I, to such mercy, as his ruthless Arm With downright payment, showed unto my Father. Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his Car, And made an Evening at the Noontide Prick. My ashes, as the Phoenix, may bring forth A Bird, that will revenge upon you all: And in that hope, I throw mine eyes to Heaven, Scorning what ere you can afflict me with. Why come you not? what, multitudes, and fear? So Cowards fight, when they can fly no further, So Doves do peck the Falcon's piercing Talons, So desperate thieves, all hopeless of their Lives, Breathe out invectives 'gainst the Officers. Oh Clifford, but bethink thee once again, And in thy thought o'errun my former time: And if thou canst, for blushing, view this face, And bite thy tongue, that slanders him with Cowardice, Whose frown hath made thee faint and fly ere this.
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)
Such pitty as my Rapiers point affords. I neuer did thee harme: why wilt thou ſlay me? Thy Father hath. But 'twas ere I was borne. Thou haſt one Sonne, for his ſake pitty me, Leaſt in reuenge thereof, ſith God is iuſt, He be as miſerably ſlaine as I. Ah, let me liue in Priſon all my dayes, And when I giue occaſion of offence, Then let me dye, for now thou haſt no cauſe. No cauſe? thy Father ſlew my Father: therefore dye. Dij faciant laudis ſumma ſit iſta tuae. Plantagenet, I come Plantagenet: And this thy Sonnes blood cleauing to my Blade, Shall ruſt vpon my Weapon, till thy blood Congeal'd with this, doe make me wipe off both. The Army of the Queene hath got the field: My Vnckles both are ſlaine, in reſcuing me; And all my followers, to the eager foe Turne back, and flye, like Ships before the Winde, Or Lambes purſu'd by hunger-ſtarued Wolues. My Sonnes, God knowes what hath bechanced them: But this I know, they haue demean'd themſelues Like men borne to Renowne, by Life or Death. Three times did Richard make a Lane to me, And thrice cry'de, Courage Father, fight it out: And full as oft came Edward to my ſide, With Purple Faulchion, painted to the Hilt, In blood of thoſe that had encountred him: And when the hardyeſt Warriors did retyre, Richard cry'de, Charge, and giue no foot of ground, And cry'de, A Crowne, or elſe a glorious Tombe, A Scepter, or an Earthly Sepulchre. With this we charg'd againe: but out alas, We bodg'd againe, as I haue ſeene a Swan With bootleſſe labour ſwimme againſt the Tyde, And ſpend her ſtrength with ouer-matching Waues. Ah hearke, the fatall followers doe purſue, And I am faint, and cannot flye their furie: And were I ſtrong, I would not ſhunne their furie. The Sands are numbred, that makes vp my Life, Here muſt I ſtay, and here my Life muſt end. Come bloody Clifford, rough Northumberland, I dare your quenchleſſe furie to more rage: I am your Butt, and I abide your Shot. Yeeld to our mercy, proud Plantagenet. I, to ſuch mercy, as his ruthleſſe Arme With downe-right payment, ſhew'd vnto my Father. Now Phaeton hath tumbled from his Carre, And made an Euening at the Noone-tide Prick. My aſhes, as the Phoenix, may bring forth A Bird, that will reuenge vpon you all: And in that hope, I throw mine eyes to Heauen, Scorning what ere you can afflict me with. Why come you not? what, multitudes, and feare? So Cowards fight, when they can flye no further, So Doues doe peck the Faulcons piercing Tallons, So deſperate Theeues, all hopeleſſe of their Liues, Breathe out Inuectiues 'gainſt the Officers. Oh Clifford, but bethinke thee once againe, And in thy thought ore-run my former time: And if thou canſt, for bluſhing, view this face, And bite thy tongue, that ſlanders him with Cowardice, Whoſe frowne hath made thee faint and flye ere this.