3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 8 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 503 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
I will not bandy with thee word for word, But buckler with thee blows twice two for one. Hold valiant Clifford, for a thousand causes I would prolong a while the Traitor's Life: Wrath makes him deaf; speak thou Northumberland. Hold Clifford, do not honour him so much, To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart. What valour were it, when a Cur doth grin, For one to thrust his Hand between his Teeth, When he might spurn him with his Foot away? It is War's prize, to take all Vantages, And ten to one, is no impeach of Valour. I, I, so strives the Woodcock with the Gynne. So doth the Cony struggle in the Net. So triumph thieves upon their conquered Booty, So True men yield with Robbers, so o're-matcht. What would your Grace have done unto him now? Brave Warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come make him stand upon this Molehill here, That reached at Mountains with outstretched Arms, Yet parted but the shadow with his Hand. What, was it you that would be England's King? Was't you that reuelled in our Parliament, And made a Preachment of your high Descent? Where are your Mess of Sons, to back you now? The wanton Edward, and the lusty George? And where's that valiant Crook-back Prodigy, Dicky, your Boy, that with his grumbling voice Was wont to cheer his Dad in Mutinies? Or with the rest, where is your Darling, Rutland? Look York, I stained this Napkin with the blood That valiant Clifford, with his Rapier's point, Made issue from the Bosom of the Boy: And if thine eyes can water for his death, I give thee this to dry thy Cheeks withal. Alas poor York, but that I hate thee deadly, I should lament thy miserable state. I prithee grieve, to make me merry, York. What, hath thy fiery heart so parched thine entrayles, That not a Tear can fall, for Rutland's death? Why art thou patiented, man? thou shouldst be mad: And I, to make thee mad, do mock thee thus. Stamp, rave, and fret, that I may sing and dance. Thou wouldst be feed, I see, to make me sport: York cannot speak, unless he wear a Crown. A Crown for York; and Lords, bow low to him: Hold you his hands, whilst I do set it on. I marry Sir, now looks he like a King: I, this is he that took King Henry's Chair, And this is he was his adopted Heir. But how is it, that great Plantagenet Is crowned so soon, and broke his solemn Oath? As I bethink me, you should not be King, Till our King Henry had shook hands with Death. And will you pale your head in Henry's Glory, And rob his Temples of the Diadem, Now in his Life, against your holy Oath? Oh 'tis a fault too too unpardonable. Off with the Crowne; and with the Crown, his Head, And whilst we breathe, take time to do him dead.
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)
I will not bandie with thee word for word, But buckler with thee blowes twice two for one. Hold valiant Clifford, for a thouſand cauſes I would prolong a while the Traytors Life: Wrath makes him deafe; ſpeake thou Northumberland. Hold Clifford, doe not honor him ſo much, To prick thy finger, though to wound his heart. What valour were it, when a Curre doth grinne, For one to thruſt his Hand betweene his Teeth, When he might ſpurne him with his Foot away? It is Warres prize, to take all Vantages, And tenne to one, is no impeach of Valour. I, I, ſo ſtriues the Woodcocke with the Gynne. So doth the Connie ſtruggle in the Net. So triumph Theeues vpon their conquer'd Booty, So True men yeeld with Robbers, ſo o're-matcht. What would your Grace haue done vnto him now? Braue Warriors, Clifford and Northumberland, Come make him ſtand vpon this Mole-hill here, That raught at Mountaines with out-ſtretched Armes, Yet parted but the ſhadow with his Hand. What, was it you that would be Englands King? Was't you that reuell'd in our Parliament, And made a Preachment of your high Deſcent? Where are your Meſſe of Sonnes, to back you now? The wanton Edward, and the luſtie George? And where's that valiant Crook-back Prodigie, Dickie, your Boy, that with his grumbling voyce Was wont to cheare his Dad in Mutinies? Or with the reſt, where is your Darling, Rutland? Looke Yorke, I ſtayn'd this Napkin with the blood That valiant Clifford, with his Rapiers point, Made iſſue from the Boſome of the Boy: And if thine eyes can water for his death, I giue thee this to drie thy Cheekes withall. Alas poore Yorke, but that I hate thee deadly, I ſhould lament thy miſerable ſtate. I prythee grieue, to make me merry, Yorke. What, hath thy fierie heart ſo parcht thine entrayles, That not a Teare can fall, for Rutlands death? Why art thou patient, man? thou ſhould'ſt be mad: And I, to make thee mad, doe mock thee thus. Stampe, raue, and fret, that I may ſing and dance. Thou would'ſt be fee'd, I ſee, to make me ſport: Yorke cannot ſpeake, vnleſſe he weare a Crowne. A Crowne for Yorke; and Lords, bow lowe to him: Hold you his hands, whileſt I doe ſet it on. I marry Sir, now lookes he like a King: I, this is he that tooke King Henries Chaire, And this is he was his adopted Heire. But how is it, that great Plantagenet Is crown'd ſo ſoone, and broke his ſolemne Oath? As I bethinke me, you ſhould not be King, Till our King Henry had ſhooke hands with Death. And will you pale your head in Henries Glory, And rob his Temples of the Diademe, Now in his Life, againſt your holy Oath? Oh 'tis a fault too too vnpardonable. Off with the Crone; and with the Crowne, his Head, And whileſt we breathe, take time to doe him dead.