3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 13 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 0.83 · 483 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T43: henry, king, richard, warwick, york, edward, father, duke, crown, son.
I know it well Lord Warwick, blame me not, 'Tis love I bear thy glories make me speak: But in this troublous time, what's to be done? Shall we go throw away our Coats of Steel, And wrap our bodies in black mourning Gowns, Numb'ring our Aue-maries' with our Beads? Or shall we on the Helmets of our Foes Tell our Devotion with revengeful Arms? If for the last, say I, and to it Lords. Why therefore Warwick came to seek you out, And therefore comes my Brother Montague: Attend me Lords, the proud insulting Queen, With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland, And of their Feather, many moe proud Birds, Have wrought the easie-melting King, like Wax. He swore consent to your Succession, His Oath enroled in the Parliament. And now to London all the crew are gone, To frustrate both his Oath, and what beside May make against the house of Lancaster. Their power (I think) is thirty thousand strong: Now, if the help of Norfolk, and myself, With all the Friends that thou brave Earl of March, Amongst the loving Welshmen canst procure, Will but amount to five and twenty thousand, Why Via, to London will we march, And once again, bestride our foaming Steeds, And once again cry Charge upon our Foes, But never once again turn back and fly. I, now me thinks I hear great Warwick speak; ne'er may he live to see a Sunshine day, That cries Retire, if Warwick bid him stay. Lord Warwick, on thy shoulder will I lean, And when thou failest (as God forbidden the hour) Must Edward fall, which peril heaven forefend. No longer Earl of March, but Duke of York: The next degree, is England's Royal Throne: For King of England shalt thou be proclaimed In every Burrow as we pass along, And he that throws not up his cap for joy, Shall for the Fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard Montague: Stay we no longer, dreaming of Renown, But sound the Trumpets, and about our Task. Then Clifford, were thy heart as hard as Steel, As thou hast shown it flinty by thy deeds, I come to pierce it, or to give thee mine. Then strike up Drums, God and S. George for us. How now? what news? The Duke of Norfolk sends you word by me, The Queen is coming with a puissant Host, And craves your company, for speedy counsel. Why then it sorts, brave Warriors, let's away. Welcome my Lord, to this brave town of York, Yonder's the head of that Arch-enemy, That sought to be encompassed with your Crown. Doth not the object cheer your heart, my Lord. I, as the rocks cheer them that fear their wrack, To see this sight, it irks my very soul: Withhold revenge (dear God) 'tis not my fault, Nor wittingly have I infringed my Vow.
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)
I know it well Lord Warwick, blame me not, 'Tis loue I beare thy glories make me ſpeake: But in this troublous time, what's to be done? Shall we go throw away our Coates of Steele, And wrap our bodies in blacke mourning Gownes, Numb'ring our Aue-Maries with our Beads? Or ſhall we on the Helmets of our Foes Tell our Deuotion with reuengefull Armes? If for the laſt, ſay I, and to it Lords. Why therefore Warwick came to ſeek you out, And therefore comes my Brother Mountague: Attend me Lords, the proud inſulting Queene, With Clifford, and the haught Northumberland, And of their Feather, many moe proud Birds, Haue wrought the eaſie-melting King, like Wax. He ſwore conſent to your Succeſſion, His Oath enrolled in the Parliament. And now to London all the crew are gone, To fruſtrate both his Oath, and what beſide May make againſt the houſe of Lancaſter. Their power (I thinke) is thirty thouſand ſtrong: Now, if the helpe of Norfolke, and my ſelfe, With all the Friends that thou braue Earle of March, Among'ſt the louing Welſhmen can'ſt procure, Will but amount to fiue and twenty thouſand, Why Via, to London will we march, And once againe, beſtride our foaming Steeds, And once againe cry Charge vpon our Foes, But neuer once againe turne backe and flye. I, now me thinks I heare great Warwick ſpeak; Ne're may he liue to ſee a Sun-ſhine day, That cries Retire, if Warwicke bid him ſtay. Lord Warwicke, on thy ſhoulder will I leane, And when thou failſt (as God forbid the houre) Muſt Edward fall, which perill heauen forefend. No longer Earle of March, but Duke of Yorke: The next degree, is Englands Royall Throne: For King of England ſhalt thou be proclaim'd In euery Burrough as we paſſe along, And he that throwes not vp his cap for ioy, Shall for the Fault make forfeit of his head. King Edward, valiant Richard Mountague: Stay we no longer, dreaming of Renowne, But ſound the Trumpets, and about our Taske. Then Clifford, were thy heart as hard as Steele, As thou haſt ſhewne it flintie by thy deeds, I come to pierce it, or to giue thee mine. Then ſtrike vp Drums, God and S. George for vs. How now? what newes? The Duke of Norfolke ſends you word by me, The Queene is comming with a puiſſant Hoaſt, And craues your company, for ſpeedy counſell. Why then it ſorts, braue Warriors, let's away. Welcome my Lord, to this braue town of Yorke, Yonders the head of that Arch-enemy, That ſought to be incompaſt with your Crowne. Doth not the obiect cheere your heart, my Lord. I, as the rockes cheare them that feare their wrack, To ſee this ſight, it irkes my very ſoule: With-hold reuenge (deere God) 'tis not my fault, Nor wittingly haue I infring'd my Vow.