3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 9 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 479 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
That is my Office, for my Father's sake. Nay stay, let's hear the Orisons he makes. She-wolf of France, But worse than Wolves of France, Whose Tongue more poisons then the Adder's Tooth: How ill-beseeming is it in thy Sex, To triumph like an Amazonian Trull, Upon their Woes, whom Fortune captivates? But that thy Face is Vizard-like, unchanging, Made impudent with use of evil deeds. I would assay, proud Queen, to make thee blush. To tell thee whence thou cam'st, of whom derived, Were shame enough, to shame thee, Wert thou not shameless. Thy Father bears the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils, and Ierusalem, Yet not so wealthy as an English Yeoman. Hath that poor Monarch taught thee to insult? It needs not, nor it boots thee not, proud Queen, Unless the Adage must be verified, That Beggars mounted, run their Horse to death. 'Tis Beauty that doth oft make Women proud, But God he knows, thy share thereof is small. 'Tis Virtue, that doth make them most admired, The contrary, doth make thee wondered at. 'Tis Government that makes them seem Divine, The want thereof, makes thee abominable. Thou art as opposite to every good, As the Antipodes are unto us, Or as the South to the Septentrion. Oh Tigers Heart, wrapped in a Woman's Hide, How couldst thou drain the Life-blood of the Child, To bid the Father wipe his eyes withal, And yet be seen to bear a Woman's face? Women are soft, mild, pitiful, and flexible; Thou, stern, obdurate, flinty, rough, remorseless. Bidst thou me rage? why now thou hast thy wish. Wouldst have me weep? why now thou hast thy will. For raging Wind blows up incessant showers, And when the Rage allays, the Rain begins. These Tears are my sweet Rutland's Obsequies, And every drop cries vengeance for his death, 'Gainst thee fell Clifford, and thee false French-woman. Beshrew me, but his passions moves me so, That hardly can I check my eyes from Tears. That Face of his, The hungry Cannibals would not have touched, Would not have stained with blood: But you are more inhuman, more inexorable, Oh, ten times more than Tigers of Hyrcania. See, ruthless Queen, a hapless Father's Tears: This Cloth thou dipd'st in blood of my sweet Boy, And I with Tears do wash the blood away. Keep thou the Napkin, and go boast of this, And if thou tell'st the heavy story right, Upon my Soul, the hearers will shed Tears: Yea, even my Foes will shed fast-falling Tears, And say, Alas, it was a piteous deed. There, take the Crown, and with the Crown, my Curse, And in thy need, such comfort come to thee, As now I reap at thy too cruel hand. Hardhearted Clifford, take me from the World, My Soul to Heaven, my Blood upon your Heads.
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)
That is my Office, for my Fathers ſake. Nay ſtay, let's heare the Orizons hee makes. Shee-Wolfe of France, But worſe then Wolues of France, Whoſe Tongue more poyſons then the Adders Tooth: How ill-beſeeming is it in thy Sex, To triumph like an Amazonian Trull, Vpon their Woes, whom Fortune captiuates? But that thy Face is Vizard-like, vnchanging, Made impudent with vſe of euill deedes. I would aſſay, prowd Queene, to make thee bluſh. To tell thee whence thou cam'ſt, of whom deriu'd, Were ſhame enough, to ſhame thee, Wert thou not ſhameleſſe. Thy Father beares the type of King of Naples, Of both the Sicils, and Ieruſalem, Yet not ſo wealthie as an Engliſh Yeoman. Hath that poore Monarch taught thee to inſult? It needes not, nor it bootes thee not, prowd Queene, Vnleſſe the Adage muſt be verify'd, That Beggers mounted, runne their Horſe to death. 'Tis Beautie that doth oft make Women prowd, But God he knowes, thy ſhare thereof is ſmall. 'Tis Vertue, that doth make them moſt admir'd, The contrary, doth make thee wondred at. 'Tis Gouernment that makes them ſeeme Diuine, The want thereof, makes thee abhominable. Thou art as oppoſite to euery good, As the Antipodes are vnto vs, Or as the South to the Septentrion. Oh Tygres Heart, wrapt in a Womans Hide, How could'ſt thou drayne the Life-blood of the Child, To bid the Father wipe his eyes withall, And yet be ſeene to beare a Womans face? Women are ſoft, milde, pittifull, and flexible; Thou▪ ſterne, obdurate, flintie, rough, remorſeleſſe. Bidſt thou me rage? why now thou haſt thy wiſh. Would'ſt haue me weepe? why now thou haſt thy will. For raging Wind blowes vp inceſſant ſhowers, And when the Rage allayes, the Raine begins. Theſe Teares are my ſweet Rutlands Obſequies, And euery drop cryes vengeance for his death, 'Gainſt thee fell Clifford, and thee falſe French-woman. Beſhrew me, but his paſſions moues me ſo, That hardly can I check my eyes from Teares. That Face of his, The hungry Caniballs would not haue toucht, Would not haue ſtayn'd with blood: But you are more inhumane, more inexorable, Oh, tenne times more then Tygers of Hyrcania. See, ruthleſſe Queene, a hapleſſe Fathers Teares: This Cloth thou dipd'ſt in blood of my ſweet Boy, And I with Teares doe waſh the blood away. Keepe thou the Napkin, and goe boaſt of this, And if thou tell'ſt the heauie ſtorie right, Vpon my Soule, the hearers will ſhed Teares: Yea, euen my Foes will ſhed faſt-falling Teares, And ſay, Alas, it was a pittious deed. There, take the Crowne, and with the Crowne, my Curſe, And in thy need, ſuch comfort come to thee, As now I reape at thy too cruell hand. Hard-hearted Clifford, take me from the World, My Soule to Heauen, my Blood vpon your Heads.