3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 12 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men T43 York and Lancaster: dynastic claims and typicality 0.79 · 446 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T43: henry, king, richard, warwick, york, edward, father, duke, crown, son.
O Warwick, Warwick, that Plantagenet Which held thee dearly, as his Souls Redemption, Is by the stern Lord Clifford done to death. Ten days ago, I drowned these news in tears, And now to add more measure to your woes, I come to tell you things sith then befallen. After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought, Where your brave Father breathed his latest gasp, Tidings, as swiftly as the Posts could run, Were brought me of your Loss, and his Depart. I then in London, keeper of the King, Mustered my Soldiers, gathered flocks of Friends, Marched toward S. Albon, to intercept the Queen, Bearing the King in my behalf along: For by my Scouts, I was advertised That she was coming with a full intent To dash our late Decree in Parliament, Touching King Henry's Oath, and your Succession: Short Tale to make, we at S. Albon's met, Our Battles joined, and both sides fiercely fought: But whether 'twas the coldness of the King, Who looked full gently on his warlike Queen, That robbed my Soldiers of their heated Spleen. Or whether 'twas report of her success, Or more than common fear of Clifford's Rigour, Who thunders to his Captives, Blood and Death, I cannot judge: but to conclude with truth, Their Weapons like to Lightning, came and went: Our Soldiers like the Night-Owles lazy flight, Or like a lazy Thresher with a Flail, Fell gently down, as if they struck their Friends. I cheered them up with justice of our Cause, With promise of high pay, and great Rewards: But all in vain, they had no heart to fight, And we (in them) no hope to win the day, So that we fled: the King unto the Queen, Lord George, your Brother, Norfolk, and myself, In haste, post haste, are come to join with you: For in the Marches here we heard you were, Making another Head, to fight again. Where is the Duke of Norfolk, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to England? Some six miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers, And for your Brother he was lately sent From your kind Aunt Duchess of Burgundy, With aid of Soldiers to this needful War. 'Twas odds belike, when valiant Warwick fled; Oft have I heard his praises in Pursuit, But ne'er till now, his Scandal of Retire. Nor now my Scandal Richard, dost thou hear: For thou shalt know this strong right hand of mine, Can pluck the Diadem from faint Henry's head, And wring the awful Sceptre from his Fist, Were he as famous, and as bold in War, As he is famed for Mildness, Peace, and Prayer.
seed 43: T8 · seed 44: T50 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
O Warwicke, Warwicke, that Plantagenet Which held thee deerely, as his Soules Redemption, Is by the ſterne Lord Clifford done to death. Ten dayes ago, I drown'd theſe newes in teares, And now to adde more meaſure to your woes, I come to tell you things ſith then befalne. After the bloody Fray at Wakefield fought, Where your braue Father breath'd his lateſt gaspe, Tydings, as ſwiftly as the Poſtes could runne, Were brought me of your Loſſe, and his Depart. I then in London, keeper of the King, Muſter'd my Soldiers, gathered flockes of Friends, Marcht toward S. Albons, to intercept the Queene, Bearing the King in my behalfe along: For by my Scouts, I was aduertiſed That ſhe was comming with a full intent To daſh our late Decree in Parliament, Touching King Henries Oath, and your Succeſsion: Short Tale to make, we at S. Albons met, Our Battailes ioyn'd, and both ſides fiercely fought: But whether 'twas the coldneſſe of the King, Who look'd full gently on his warlike Queene, That robb'd my Soldiers of their heated Spleene. Or whether 'twas report of her ſucceſſe, Or more then common feare of Cliffords Rigour, Who thunders to his Captiues, Blood and Death, I cannot iudge: but to conclude with truth, Their Weapons like to Lightning, came and went: Our Souldiers like the Night-Owles lazie flight, Or like a lazie Threſher with a Flaile, Fell gently downe, as if they ſtrucke their Friends. I cheer'd them vp with iuſtice of our Cauſe, With promiſe of high pay, and great Rewards: But all in vaine, they had no heart to fight, And we (in them) no hope to win the day, So that we fled: the King vnto the Queene, Lord George, your Brother, Norfolke, and my Selfe, In haſte, poſt haſte, are come to ioyne with you: For in the Marches heere we heard you were, Making another Head, to fight againe. Where is the Duke of Norfolke, gentle Warwick? And when came George from Burgundy to England? Some ſix miles off the Duke is with the Soldiers, And for your Brother he was lately ſent From your kinde Aunt Dutcheſſe of Burgundie, With ayde of Souldiers to this needfull Warre. 'Twas oddes belike, when valiant Warwick fled; Oft haue I heard his praiſes in Purſuite, But ne're till now, his Scandall of Retire. Nor now my Scandall Richard, doſt thou heare: For thou ſhalt know this ſtrong right hand of mine, Can plucke the Diadem from faint Henries head, And wring the awefull Scepter from his Fiſt, Were he as famous, and as bold in Warre, As he is fam'd for Mildneſſe, Peace, and Prayer.