3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 14 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T43 York and Lancaster: dynastic claims and · 502 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T43: henry, king, richard, warwick, york, edward, father, duke, crown, son.
My gracious Liege, this too much lenity And harmful pity must be laid aside: To whom do Lions cast their gentle Looks? Not to the Beast, that would usurp their Den. Whose hand is that the Forest Bear doth lick? Not his that spoils her young before her face. Who escapes the lurking Serpents mortal sting? Not he that sets his foot upon her back. The smallest Worm will turn, being trodden on, And Doves will peck in safeguard of their Brood. Ambitious York, did level at thy Crown, Thou smiling, while he knit his angry brows. He but a Duke, would have his Son a King, And raise his issue like a loving Sire. Thou being a King, blessed with a goodly son, Didst yield consent to disinherit him: Which argued thee a most unloving Father. Unreasonable Creatures feed their young, And though man's face be fearful to their eyes, Yet in protection of their tender ones, Who hath not seen them even with those wings, Which sometime they have used with fearful flight, Make war with him that climbed unto their nest, Offering their own lives in their yongs defence? For shame, my Liege, make them your Precedent: Were it not pity that this goodly Boy Should lose his Birthright by his Father's fault, And long hereafter say unto his child, What my great Grandfather, and Grandsire got, My careless Father fond gave away. Ah, what a shame were this? Look on the Boy, And let his manly face, which promiseth Successful Fortune steel thy melting heart, To hold thine own, and leave thine own with him. Full well hath Clifford played the Orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force: But Clifford tell me, didst thou never hear, That things ill got, had ever bad success. And happy always was it for that Son, Whose Father for his hoarding went to hell: I'll leave my Son my Virtuous deeds behind, And would my Father had left me no more: For all the rest is held at such a Rate, As brings a thousand fold more care to keep, Then in possession any jot of pleasure. Ah Cousin York, would thy best Friends did know, How it doth grieve me that thy head is here. My Lord cheer up your spirits, our foes are nigh, And this soft courage makes your Followers faint: You promised Knighthood to our forward son, Unsheathe your sword, and dub him presently. Edward, kneel down. Edward Plantagenet, arise a Knight, And learn this Lesson; Draw thy Sword in right. My gracious Father, by your Kingly leave, I'll draw it as Apparent to the Crown, And in that quarrel, use it to the death. Why that is spoken like a toward Prince. Royal Commanders, be in readiness, For with a Band of thirty thousand men, Comes Warwick backing of the Duke of York, And in the Towns as they do march along, Proclaims him King, and many fly to him, Darraigne your battle, for they are at hand.
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)
My gracious Liege, this too much lenity And harmfull pitty muſt be layd aſide: To whom do Lyons caſt their gentle Lookes? Not to the Beaſt, that would vſurpe their Den. Whoſe hand is that the Forreſt Beare doth licke? Not his that ſpoyles her yong before her face. Who ſcapes the lurking Serpents mortall ſting? Not he that ſets his foot vpon her backe. The ſmalleſt Worme will turne, being troden on, And Doues will pecke in ſafegard of their Brood. Ambitious Yorke, did leuell at thy Crowne, Thou ſmiling, while he knit his angry browes. He but a Duke, would haue his Sonne a King, And raiſe his iſſue like a louing Sire. Thou being a King, bleſt with a goodly ſonne, Did'ſt yeeld conſent to diſinherit him: Which argued thee a moſt vnlouing Father. Vnreaſonable Creatures feed their young, And though mans face be fearefull to their eyes, Yet in protection of their tender ones, Who hath not ſeene them euen with thoſe wings, Which ſometime they haue vs'd with fearfull flight, Make warre with him that climb'd vnto their neſt, Offering their owne liues in their yongs defence? For ſhame, my Liege, make them your Preſident: Were it not pitty that this goodly Boy Should looſe his Birth-right by his Fathers fault, And long heereafter ſay vnto his childe, What my great Grandfather, and Grandſire got, My careleſſe Father fondly gaue away. Ah, what a ſhame were this? Looke on the Boy, And let his manly face, which promiſeth Succeſſefull Fortune ſteele thy melting heart, To hold thine owne, and leaue thine owne with him. Full well hath Clifford plaid the Orator, Inferring arguments of mighty force: But Clifford tell me, did'ſt thou neuer heare, That things ill got, had euer bad ſucceſſe. And happy alwayes was it for that Sonne, Whoſe Father for his hoording went to hell: Ile leaue my Sonne my Vertuous deeds behinde, And would my Father had left me no more: For all the reſt is held at ſuch a Rate, As brings a thouſand fold more care to keepe, Then in poſſeſſion any iot of pleaſure. Ah Coſin Yorke, would thy beſt Friends did know, How it doth greeue me that thy head is heere. My Lord cheere vp your ſpirits, our foes are nye, And this ſoft courage makes your Followers faint: You promiſt Knighthood to our forward ſonne, Vnſheath your ſword, and dub him preſently. Edward, kneele downe. Edward Plantagenet, ariſe a Knight, And learne this Leſſon; Draw thy Sword in right. My gracious Father, by your Kingly leaue, Ile draw it as Apparant to the Crowne, And in that quarrell, vſe it to the death. Why that is ſpoken like a toward Prince. Royall Commanders, be in readineſſe, For with a Band of thirty thouſand men, Comes Warwicke backing of the Duke of Yorke, And in the Townes as they do march along, Proclaimes him King, and many flye to him, Darraigne your battell, for they are at hand.