3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 18 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T51 Parents and children: blessing, birthrig · 484 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T51: esau, iacob, father, son, isaac, god, love, birthright, parents, thing.
here on this Molehill will I sit me down, To whom God will, there be the Victory: For Margaret my Queen, and Clifford too Have chid me from the Battle: Swearing both, They prosper best of all when I am thence. Would I were dead, if God's good will were so; For what is in this world, but Grief and Woe. Oh God! me thinks it were a happy life, To be no better than a homely Swain, To sit upon a hill, as I do now, To carve out dials quaintly, point by point, Thereby to see the Minutes how they run: How many makes the Hour full complete, How many Hours brings about the Day, How many Days will finish up the Year, How many Years, a Mortal man may live. When this is known, then to divide the Times: So many Hours, must I tend my Flock; So many Hours, must I take my Rest: So many Hours, must I Contemplate: So many Hours, must I Sport myself: So many Days, my Ewes have been with young: So many weeks, ere the poor Fools will Eane: So many years, ere I shall shear the Fleece: So Minutes, Hours, Days, Months, and Years, Past over to the end they were created, Would bring white hairs, unto a Quiet grave. Ah! what a life were this? How sweet? how lovely? Gives not the Hawthorne bush a sweeter shade To Shepherds, looking on their silly Sheep, Then doth a rich Embroidered Canopy To Kings, that fear their Subject's treachery? Oh yes, it doth; a thousand fold it doth. And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds, His cold thin drink out of his Leather Bottle, His wont sleep, under a fresh trees shade, All which secure, and sweetly he enjoys, Is far beyond a Prince's Delicates: His Viands sparkling in a Golden Cup, His body couched in a curious bed, When Care, Mistrust, and Treason waits on him. Ill blows the wind that profits no body, This man whom hand to hand I slew in fight, May be possessed with some store of Crowns, And I that (haply) take them from him now, May yet (ere night) yield both my Life and them To some man else, as this dead man doth me. Who's this? Oh God! It is my Father's face, Whom in this Conflict, I (unwares) have killed: Oh heavy times! begetting such Events. From London, by the King was I pressed forth, My Father being the Earl of Warwick's man, Came on the part of York, pressed by his Master: And I, who at his hands received my life, Have by my hands, of Life bereaved him. Pardon me God, I knew not what I did: And pardon Father, for I knew not thee. My Tears shall wipe away these bloody marks: And no more words, till they have flowed their fill.
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)
Heere on this Mole-hill will I ſit me downe, To whom God will, there be the Victorie: For Margaret my Queene, and Clifford too Haue chid me from the Battell: Swearing both, They proſper beſt of all when I am thence. Would I were dead, if Gods good will were ſo; For what is in this world, but Greefe and Woe. Oh God! me thinkes it were a happy life, To be no better then a homely Swaine, To ſit vpon a hill, as I do now, To carue out Dialls queintly, point by point, Thereby to ſee the Minutes how they runne: How many makes the Houre full compleate, How many Houres brings about the Day, How many Dayes will finiſh vp the Yeare, How many Yeares, a Mortall man may liue. When this is knowne, then to diuide the Times: So many Houres, muſt I tend my Flocke; So many Houres, muſt I take my Reſt: So many Houres, muſt I Contemplate: So many Houres, muſt I Sport my ſelfe: So many Dayes, my Ewes haue bene with yong: So many weekes, ere the poore Fooles will Eane: So many yeares, ere I ſhall ſheere the Fleece: So Minutes, Houres, Dayes, Monthes, and Yeares, Paſt ouer to the end they were created, Would bring white haires, vnto a Quiet graue. Ah! what a life were this? How ſweet? how louely? Giues not the Hawthorne buſh a ſweeter ſhade To Shepheards▪ looking on their ſilly Sheepe, Then doth a rich Imbroider'd Canopie To Kings, that feare their Subiects treacherie? Oh yes, it doth; a thouſand fold it doth. And to conclude, the Shepherds homely Curds, His cold thinne drinke out of his Leather Bottle, His wonted ſleepe, vnder a freſh trees ſhade, All which ſecure, and ſweetly he enioyes, Is farre beyond a Princes Delicates: His Viands ſparkling in a Golden Cup, His bodie couched in a curious bed, When Care, Miſtruſt, and Treaſon waits on him. Ill blowes the winde that profits no body, This man whom hand to hand I ſlew in fight, May be poſſeſſed with ſome ſtore of Crownes, And I that (haply) take them from him now, May yet (ere night) yeeld both my Life and them To ſome man elſe, as this dead man doth me. Who's this? Oh God! It is my Fathers face, Whom in this Conflict, I (vnwares) haue kill'd: Oh heauy times! begetting ſuch Euents. From London, by the King was I preſt forth, My Father being the Earle of Warwickes man, Came on the part of Yorke, preſt by his Maſter: And I, who at his hands receiu'd my life, Haue by my hands, of Life bereaued him. Pardon me God, I knew not what I did: And pardon Father, for I knew not thee. My Teares ſhall wipe away theſe bloody markes: And no more words, till they haue flow'd their fill.