3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 15 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T53 The crown: kingship claimed, resigned an · 507 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T53: crown, king, state, life, lord, lords, live, queen, tullia, prince.
I would your Highness would departed the field, The Queen hath best success when you are absent. I good my Lord, and leave us to our Fortune. Why, that's my fortune too, therefore I'll stay. Be it with resolution then to fight. My Royal Father, cheer these Noble Lords, And hearten those that fight in your defence: Unsheathe your Sword, good Father: Cry S. George. Now perjured Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace? And set thy Diadem upon my head? Or bide the mortal Fortune of the field. Go rate thy Minions, proud insulting Boy, Becomes it thee to be thus bold in terms, Before thy Sovereign, and thy lawful King? I am his King, and he should bow his knee: I was adopted Heir by his consent. Since when, his Oath is broke: for as I hear, You that are King, though he do wear the Crown, Have caused him by new Act of Parliament, To blot out me, and put his own Son in. And reason too, Who should succeed the Father, but the Son. Are you there Butcher? O, I cannot speak. I Crooke-back, here I stand to answer thee, Or any he, the proudest of thy sort. 'Twas you that killed young Rutland, was it not? I, and old York, and yet not satisfied. For God's sake Lords give signal to the fight. What sayst thou Henry, Wilt thou yield the Crown? Why how now long-tongued Warwick, dare you speak? When you and I, met at S. Albon's last, Your legs did better service than your hands. Then 'twas my turn to fly, and now 'tis thine: You said so much before, and yet you fled. 'Twas not your valour Clifford drove me thence. No, nor your manhood that durst make you stay. Northumberland, I hold thee reverently, Break off the parley, for scarce I can refrain The execution of my big-swollen heart Upon that Clifford, that cruel Child-killer. I slew thy Father, callest thou him a Child? I like a Dastard, and a treacherous Coward, As thou didd'st kill our tender Brother Rutland, But ere Sunset, I'll make thee curse the deed. Have done with words (my Lords) and hear me speak. Defy them then, or else hold close thy lips. I prithee give no limits to my Tongue, I am a King, and privileged to speak. My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting here, Cannot be cured by Words, therefore be still. Then Executioner unsheathe thy sword: By him that made us all, I am resolved, That Clifford's Manhood, lies upon his tongue. Say Henry, shall I have my right, or no: A thousand men have broke their Fasts to day, That ne'er shall dine, unless thou-yeeld the Crown. If thou deny, their Blood upon thy head, For York in justice put's his Armour on. If that be right, which Warwick says is right, There is no wrong, but every thing is right. Who ever got thee, there thy Mother stands, For well I wot, thou hast thy Mother's tongue.
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)
I would your Highneſſe would depart the field, The Queene hath beſt ſucceſſe when you are abſent. I good my Lord, and leaue vs to our Fortune. Why, that's my fortune too, therefore Ile ſtay. Be it with reſolution then to fight. My Royall Father, cheere theſe Noble Lords, And hearten thoſe that fight in your defence: Vnſheath your Sword, good Father: Cry S. George. Now periur'd Henry, wilt thou kneel for grace? And ſet thy Diadem vpon my head? Or bide the mortall Fortune of the field. Go rate thy Minions, proud inſulting Boy, Becomes it thee to be thus bold in termes, Before thy Soueraigne, and thy lawfull King? I am his King, and he ſhould bow his knee: I was adopted Heire by his conſent. Since when, his Oath is broke: for as I heare, You that are King, though he do weare the Crowne, Haue caus'd him by new Act of Parliament, To blot out me, and put his owne Sonne in. And reaſon too, Who ſhould ſucceede the Father, but the Sonne. Are you there Butcher? O, I cannot ſpeake. I Crooke-back, here I ſtand to anſwer thee, Or any he, the proudeſt of thy ſort. 'Twas you that kill'd yong Rutland, was it not? I, and old Yorke, and yet not ſatisfied. For Gods ſake Lords giue ſignall to the fight. What ſay'ſt thou Henry, Wilt thou yeeld the Crowne? Why how now long-tongu'd Warwicke, dare you ſpeak? When you and I, met at S. Albons laſt, Your legges did better ſeruice then your hands. Then 'twas my turne to fly, and now 'tis thine: You ſaid ſo much before, and yet you fled. 'Twas not yout valor Clifford droue me thence. No, nor your manhood that durſt make you ſtay. Northumberland, I hold thee reuerently, Breake off the parley, for ſcarſe I can refraine The execution of my big-ſwolne heart Vpon that Clifford, that cruell Child-killer. I ſlew thy Father, cal'ſt thou him a Child? I like a Daſtard, and a treacherous Coward, As thou didd'ſt kill our tender Brother Rutland, But ere Sunſet, Ile make thee curſe the deed. Haue done with words (my Lords) and heare me ſpeake. Defie them then, or els hold cloſe thy lips. I prythee giue no limits to my Tongue, I am a King, and priuiledg'd to ſpeake. My Liege, the wound that bred this meeting here, Cannot be cur'd by Words, therefore be ſtill. Then Executioner vnſheath thy ſword: By him that made vs all, I am reſolu'd, That Cliffords Manhood, lyes vpon his tongue. Say Henry, ſhall I haue my right, or no: A thouſand men haue broke their Faſts to day, That ne're ſhall dine, vnleſſe thou-yeeld the Crowne. If thou deny, their Blood vpon thy head, For Yorke in iuſtice put's his Armour on. If that be right, which Warwick ſaies is right, There is no vvrong, but euery thing is right. Who euer got thee, there thy Mother ſtands, For well I vvot, thou haſt thy Mothers tongue.