3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 11 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men T0 Court life: dukes, favour and honour typicality 0.72 · 462 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T0: duke, lord, duchess, love, court, madam, prince, honour, grace, lady.
Ah, one that was a woeful looker on, When as the Noble Duke of York was slain, Your Princely Father, and my loving Lord. Oh speak no more, for I have heard too much. Say how he died, for I will hear it all. Environed he was with many foes, And stood against them, as the hope of Troy Against the Greeks, that would have entered Troy. But Hercules himself must yield to odds: And many strokes, though with a little Axe, Hewes down and fells the hardest-tymbered Oak. By many hands your Father was subdued, But only slaughtered by the ireful Arm Of un-relenting Clifford, and the Queen: Who crowned the gracious Duke in high despite, Laughed in his face: and when with grief he wept, The ruthless Queen gave him, to dry his Cheeks, A Napkin, steeped in the harmless blood Of sweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford slain: And after many scorns, many foul taunts, They took his Head, and on the Gates of York They set the same, and there it doth remain, The saddest spectacle that ere I viewed. Sweet Duke of York, our Prop to lean upon, Now thou art gone, we have no Staff, no Stay. Oh Clifford, boisterous Clifford thou hast slain The flower of Europe, for his Chivalry, And treacherously hast thou vanquished him, For hand to hand he would have vanquished thee. Now my Souls Palace is become a Prison: Ah, would she break from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be closed up in rest: For never henceforth shall I joy again: Never, oh never shall I see more joy. I cannot weep: for all my body's moisture Scarce serves to quench my Furnace-burning hart: Nor can my tongue unloade my hearts great burden, For selfsame wind that I should speak withal, Is kindling coals that fires all my breast, And burns me up with flames, that tears would quench. To weep, is to make less the depth of grief: Tears then for Babes; Blows, and Revenge for me. Richard, I bear thy name, I'll venge thy death, Or dye renowned by attempting it. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee: His Dukedom, and his Chair with me is left. Nay, if thou be that Princely eagle's Bird, Show thy descent by gazing 'gainst the Sun: For Chair and Dukedom, Throne and Kingdom say, Either that is thine, or else thou were't not his. How now fair Lords? What fair? What news abroad? Great Lord of Warwick, if we should recount Our baleful news, and at each words deliverance Stab Poniards in our flesh, till all were told, The words would add more anguish than the wounds. O valiant Lord, the Duke of York is slain.
seed 43: T0 · seed 44: T0 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Ah, one that was a wofull looker on, When as the Noble Duke of Yorke was ſlaine, Your Princely Father, and my louing Lord. Oh ſpeake no more, for I haue heard too much. Say how he dy'de, for I will heare it all. Enuironed he was with many foes, And ſtood againſt them, as the hope of Troy Againſt the Greekes, that would haue entred Troy. But Hercules himſelfe muſt yeeld to oddes: And many ſtroakes, though with a little Axe, Hewes downe and fells the hardeſt-tymber'd Oake. By many hands your Father was ſubdu'd, But onely ſlaught'red by the irefull Arme Of vn-relenting Clifford, and the Queene: Who crown'd the gracious Duke in high deſpight, Laugh'd in his face: and when with griefe he wept, The ruthleſſe Queene gaue him, to dry his Cheekes, A Napkin, ſteeped in the harmeleſſe blood Of ſweet young Rutland, by rough Clifford ſlaine: And after many ſcornes, many foule taunts, They tooke his Head, and on the Gates of Yorke They ſet the ſame, and there it doth remaine, The ſaddeſt ſpectacle that ere I view'd. Sweet Duke of Yorke, our Prop to leane vpon, Now thou art gone▪ wee haue no Staffe, no Stay. Oh Clifford, boyſt'rous Clifford thou haſt ſlaine The flowre of Europe, for his Cheualrie, And trecherouſly haſt thou vanquiſht him, For hand to hand he would haue vanquiſht thee. Now my Soules Pallace is become a Priſon: Ah, would ſhe breake from hence, that this my body Might in the ground be cloſed vp in reſt: For neuer henceforth ſhall I ioy againe: Neuer, oh neuer ſhall I ſee more ioy. I cannot weepe: for all my bodies moyſture Scarſe ſerues to quench my Furnace-burning hart: Nor can my tongue vnloade my hearts great burthen, For ſelfe-ſame winde that I ſhould ſpeake withall, Is kindling coales that fires all my breſt, And burnes me vp with flames, that tears would quench▪ To weepe, is to make leſſe the depth of greefe: Teares then for Babes; Blowes, and Reuenge for mee. Richard, I beare thy name, Ile venge thy death, Or dye renowned by attempting it. His name that valiant Duke hath left with thee: His Dukedome, and his Chaire with me is left. Nay, if thou be that Princely Eagles Bird, Shew thy deſcent by gazing 'gainſt the Sunne: For Chaire and Dukedome, Throne and Kingdome ſay, Either that is thine, or elſe thou wer't not his. How now faire Lords? What faire? What newes abroad? Great Lord of Warwicke, if we ſhould recompt Our balefull newes, and at each words deliuerance Stab Poniards in our fleſh, till all were told, The words would adde more anguiſh then the wounds. O valiant Lord, the Duke of Yorke is ſlaine.