3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 16 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T34 Thebes and royal catastrophe: siege, sla · 512 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T34: thebes, antigone, polynices, creon, eteocles, war, theban, gods, dear, country.
But thou art neither like thy Sire nor Dam, But like a foul misshapen Stygmaticke, Marked by the Destinies to be avoided, As venom Toads, or Lizards dreadful stings. Iron of Naples, hid with English gilt, Whose Father bears the Title of a King, (As if a Channel should be called the Sea) Sham'st thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy base-born heart. A wisp of straw were worth a thousand Crowns, To make this shameless Callet know herself: Helen of Greece was fairer far than thou, Although thy Husband may be Menelaus; And ne'er was Agamemnon's Brother wronged By that false Woman, as this King by thee. His Father revelled in the heart of France, And tamed the King, and made the Dolphin stoop: And had he matched according to his State, He might have kept that glory to this day. But when he took a beggar to his bed, And graced thy poor Sire with his Bridal day, Even then that Sunshine brewed a shower for him, That washed his Father's fortunes forth of France, And heaped sedition on his Crown at home: For what hath broached this tumult but thy Pride? Hadst thou been meek, our Title still had slept, And we in pity of the Gentle King, Had slipped our Claim, until another Age. But when we saw, our Sunshine made thy Spring, And that thy Summer bred us no increase, We set the Axe to thy usurping Root: And though the edge hath something hit ourselves, Yet know thou, since we have begun to strike, we'll never leave, till we have hewn thee down, Or bathed thy growing, with our heated bloods. And in this resolution, I defy thee, Not willing any longer Conference, Since thou denied'st the gentle King to speak. Sound Trumpet's, let our bloody Colours wave, And either Victory, or else a Grave. Stay Edward. No wrangling Woman, we'll no longer stay, These words will cost ten thousand lives this day. Fore-spent with Toil, as Runners with a Race, I lay me down a little while to breath: For strokes received, and many blows repaid, Have robbed my strong knit sinews of their strength, And spite of spite, needs must I rest awhile. Smile gentle heaven, or strike ungentle death, For this world frowns, and Edward's Sun is clouded. How now my Lord, what hap? what hope of good? Out hap is loss, our hope but sad despair, Our ranks are broke, and ruin follows us. What counsel give you? whether shall we fly? Bootless is flight, they follow us with Wings, And weak we are, and cannot shun pursuit. Ah Warwick, why hast thou withdrawn thyself? Thy Brother's blood the thirsty earth hath drunk, Broached with the Steely point of Clifford's Lance: And in the very pangs of death, he cried, Like to a dismal Clangor heard from far, Warwick, revenge; Brother, revenge my death. So underneath the belly of their Steeds, That stained their Fetlocks in his smoking blood, The Noble Gentleman gave up the ghost.
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)
But thou art neyther like thy Sire nor Damme, But like a foule miſhapen Stygmaticke, Mark'd by the Deſtinies to be auoided, As venome Toades, or Lizards dreadfull ſtings. Iron of Naples, hid with Engliſh gilt, Whoſe Father beares the Title of a King, (As if a Channell ſhould be call'd the Sea) Sham'ſt thou not, knowing whence thou art extraught, To let thy tongue detect thy baſe-borne heart. A wiſpe of ſtraw were worth a thouſand Crowns, To make this ſhameleſſe Callet know her ſelfe: Helen of Greece was fayrer farre then thou, Although thy Husband may be Menelaus; And ne're was Agamemnons Brother wrong'd By that falſe Woman, as this King by thee. His Father reuel'd in the heart of France, And tam'd the King, and made the Dolphin ſtoope: And had he match'd according to his State, He might haue kept that glory to this day. But when he tooke a begger to his bed, And grac'd thy poore Sire with his Bridall day, Euen then that Sun-ſhine brew'd a ſhowre for him, That waſht his Fathers fortunes forth of France, And heap'd ſedition on his Crowne at home: For what hath broach'd this tumult but thy Pride? Had'ſt thou bene meeke, our Title ſtill had ſlept, And we in pitty of the Gentle King, Had ſlipt our Claime, vntill another Age. But when we ſaw, our Sunſhine made thy Spring, And that thy Summer bred vs no increaſe, We ſet the Axe to thy vſurping Roote: And though the edge hath ſomething hit our ſelues, Yet know thou, ſince we haue begun to ſtrike, Wee'l neuer leaue, till we haue hewne thee downe, Or bath'd thy growing, with our heated bloods. And in this reſolution, I defie thee, Not willing any longer Conference, Since thou denied'ſt the gentle King to ſpeake. Sound Trumpets, let our bloody Colours waue, And either Victorie, or elſe a Graue. Stay Edward. No wrangling Woman, wee'l no longer ſtay, Theſe words will coſt ten thouſand liues this day. Fore-ſpent with Toile, as Runners with a Race, I lay me downe a little while to breath: For ſtrokes receiu'd, and many blowes repaid, Haue robb'd my ſtrong knit ſinewes of their ſtrength, And ſpight of ſpight, needs muſt I reſt a-while. Smile gentle heauen, or ſtrike vngentle death, For this world frownes, and Edwards Sunne is clowded. How now my Lord, what happe? what hope of good? Out hap is loſſe, our hope but ſad diſpaire, Our rankes are broke, and ruine followes vs. What counſaile giue you? whether ſhall we flye? Bootleſſe is flight, they follow vs with Wings, And weake we are, and cannot ſhun purſuite. Ah Warwicke, why haſt yu withdrawn thy ſelfe? Thy Brothers blood the thirſty earth hath drunk, Broach'd with the Steely point of Cliffords Launce: And in the very pangs of death, he cryde, Like to a diſmall Clangor heard from farre, Warwicke, reuenge; Brother, reuenge my death. So vnderneath the belly of their Steeds, That ſtain'd their Fetlockes in his ſmoaking blood, The Noble Gentleman gaue vp the ghoſt.