3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 17 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T50 Fleets, armies and generals: war by sea · 487 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
Then let the earth be drunken with our blood: I'll kill my Horse, because I will not fly: Why stand we like soft-hearted women here, Wailing our losses, whiles the Foe doth Rage, And look upon, as if the Tragedy Were played in jest, by counterfeiting Actors. here on my knee, I vow to God above, I'll never pause again, never stand still, Till either death hath closed these eyes of mine, Or Fortune given me measure of Revenge. Oh Warwick, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chain my soul to thine: And ere my knee rise from the Earth's cold face, I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou setter up, and plucker down of Kings: Beseeching thee (if with thy will it stands) That to my Foes this body must be prey, Yet that thy brazen gates of heaven may open, And give sweet passage to my sinful soul. Now Lords, take leave until we meet again, Where ere it be, in heaven, or in earth. Brother, Give me thy hand, and gentle Warwick, Let me embrace thee in my weary arms: I that did never weep, now melt with woe, That Winter should cut off our Springtime so. Away, away: Once more sweet Lords farewell. Yet let us altogether to our Troops, And give them leave to fly, that will not stay: And call them Pillars that will stand to us: And if we thrive, promise them such rewards As Victors wear at the Olympian Games. This may plant courage in their quailing breasts, For yet is hope of Life and Victory: Foreslow no longer, make we hence amain. Now Clifford, I have singled thee alone, Suppose this arm is for the Duke of York, And this for Rutland, both bound to revenge, Were't thou environed with a Brazen wall. Now Richard, I am with thee here alone, This is the hand that stabbed thy Father York, And this the hand, that slew thy Brother Rutland, And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death, And cheers these hands, that slew thy Sire and Brother, To execute the like upon thyself, And so have at thee. Nay Warwick, single out some other Chase, For I myself will hunt this Wolf to death. This battle fares like to the morning's War, When dying clouds contend, with growing light, What time the Shepherd blowing of his nails, Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. Now sways it this way, like a Mighty Sea, Forced by the Tide, to combat with the Wind: Now sways it that way, like the selfsame Sea, Forced to retire by fury of the Wind. Sometime, the Flood prevails; and than the Wind: Now, one the better: then, another best; Both tugging to be Victors, breast to breast: Yet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered. So is the equal poise of this fell War.
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)
Then let the earth be drunken with our blood: Ile kill my Horſe, becauſe I will not flye: Why ſtand we like ſoft-hearted women heere, Wayling our loſſes, whiles the Foe doth Rage, And looke vpon, as if the Tragedie Were plaid in leſt, by counterfetting Actors. Heere on my knee, I vow to God aboue, Ile neuer pawſe againe, neuer ſtand ſtill, Till either death hath clos'd theſe eyes of mine, Or Fortune giuen me meaſure of Reuenge. Oh Warwicke, I do bend my knee with thine, And in this vow do chaine my ſoule to thine: And ere my knee riſe from the Earths cold face▪ I throw my hands, mine eyes, my heart to thee, Thou ſetter vp, and plucker downe of Kings: Beſeeching thee (if with thy will it ſtands) That to my Foes this body muſt be prey, Yet that thy brazen gates of heauen may ope, And giue ſweet paſſage to my ſinfull ſoule. Now Lords, take leaue vntill we meete againe, Where ere it be, in heauen, or in earth. Brother, Giue me thy hand, and gentle Warwicke, Let me imbrace thee in my weary armes: I that did neuer weepe, now melt with wo, That Winter ſhould cut off our Spring-time ſo. Away, away: Once more ſweet Lords farwell. Yet let vs altogether to our Troopes, And giue them leaue to flye, that will not ſtay: And call them Pillars that will ſtand to vs: And if we thriue, promiſe them ſuch rewards As Victors weare at the Olympian Games. This may plant courage in their quailing breaſts, For yet is hope of Life and Victory: Foreſlow no longer, make we hence amaine. Now Clifford, I haue ſingled thee alone, Suppoſe this arme is for the Duke of Yorke, And this for Rutland, both bound to reuenge, Wer't thou inuiron'd with a Brazen wall. Now Richard, I am with thee heere alone, This is the hand that ſtabb'd thy Father Yorke, And this the hand, that ſlew thy Brother Rutland, And here's the heart, that triumphs in their death, And cheeres theſe hands, that ſlew thy Sire and Brother, To execute the like vpon thy ſelfe, And ſo haue at thee. Nay Warwicke, ſingle out ſome other Chace, For I my ſelfe will hunt this Wolfe to death. This battell fares like to the mornings Warre, When dying clouds contend, with growing light, What time the Shepheard blowing of his nailes, Can neither call it perfect day, nor night. Now ſwayes it this way, like a Mighty Sea, Forc'd by the Tide, to combat with the Winde: Now ſwayes it that way, like the ſelfe-ſame Sea, Forc'd to retyre by furie of the Winde. Sometime, the Flood preuailes; and than the Winde: Now, one the better: then, another beſt; Both tugging to be Victors, breſt to breſt: Yet neither Conqueror, nor Conquered. So is the equall poiſe of this fell Warre.