3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 20 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men T38 Death, parting and grief at court typicality 0.84 · 494 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Nay take me with thee, good sweet Exeter: Not that I fear to stay, but love to go Whether the Queen intends. Forward, away. here burns my Candle out; I, here it dies, Which whiles it lasted, gave King Henry light. O Lancaster! I fear thy overthrow, More than my Bodies parting with my Soul: My Love and Fear, glued many Friends to thee, And now I fall. Thy tough Commixtures melts, Impairing Henry, strengthening misproud York; And whether fly the Gnats, but to the Sun? And who shines now, but Henry's Enemies? O Phoebus! hadst thou never given consent, That Phaeton should check thy fiery Steeds, Thy burning Car never had scorched the earth. And Henry, hadst thou swayed as Kings should do, Or as thy Father, and his Father did, Giving no ground unto the house of York, They never then had sprung like Summer Flies: I, and ten thousand in this luckless Realm, Head left no mourning Widows for our death, And thou this day, hadst kept thy Chair in peace. For what doth cherish Weeds, but gentle air? And what makes Robbers bold, but too much lenity? Bootless are Plaints, and Cureless are my Wounds: No way to fly, nor strength to hold out flight: The Foe is merciless, and will not pity: For at their hands I have deserved no pity. The air hath got into my deadly Wounds, And much effuse of blood, doth make me faint: Come York, and Richard, Warwick, and the rest, I stabbed your Father's bosoms; Split my breast. Now breath we Lords, good fortune bids us pause, And smooth the frowns of War, with peaceful looks: Some Troops pursue the bloody-minded Queen, That led calm Henry, though he were a King, As doth a Sail, filled with a fretting Gust Command an Argosy to stem the Waves. But think you (Lords) that Clifford fled with them? No, 'tis impossible he should escape: (For though before his face I speak the words) Your Brother Richard marked him for the Grave. And whatsoe'er he is, he's surely dead. Whose soul is that which takes her heavy leave? A deadly groan, like life and deaths departing. See who it is. And now the Battles ended, If Friend or Foe, let him be gently used. Revoke that doom of mercy, for 'tis Clifford, Who not contented that he lopped the Branch In hewing Rutland, when his leaves put forth, But set his murdering knife unto the Root, From whence that tender spray did sweetly spring, I mean our Princely Father, Duke of York. From off the gates of York, fetch down the head, Your Father's head, which Clifford placed there: In stead whereof, let this supply the room, Measure for measure, must be answered. Bring forth that fatal Schreechowle to our house, That nothing sung but death, to us and ours: Now death shall stop his dismal threatening sound, And his ill-boding tongue, no more shall speak.
seed 43: T44 · seed 44: T6 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Nay take me with thee, good ſweet Exeter: Not that I feare to ſtay, but loue to go Whether the Queene intends. Forward, away. Heere burnes my Candle out; I, heere it dies, Which whiles it laſted, gaue King Henry light. O Lancaſter! I feare thy ouerthrow, More then my Bodies parting with my Soule: My Loue and Feare, glew'd many Friends to thee, And now I fall. Thy tough Commixtures melts, Impairing Henry, ſtrength'ning miſproud Yorke; And whether flye the Gnats, but to the Sunne? And who ſhines now, but Henries Enemies? O Phoebus! had'ſt thou neuer giuen conſent, That Phaeton ſhould checke thy fiery Steeds, Thy burning Carre neuer had ſcorch'd the earth. And Henry, had'ſt thou ſway'd as Kings ſhould do, Or as thy Father, and his Father did, Giuing no ground vnto the houſe of Yorke, They neuer then had ſprung like Sommer Flyes: I, and ten thouſand in this luckleſſe Realme, Hed left no mourning Widdowes for our death, And thou this day, had'ſt kept thy Chaire in peace. For what doth cherriſh Weeds, but gentle ayre? And what makes Robbers bold, but too much lenity? Bootleſſe are Plaints, and Cureleſſe are my Wounds: No way to flye, nor ſtrength to hold out flight: The Foe is mercileſſe, and will not pitty: For at their hands I haue deſeru'd no pitty. The ayre hath got into my deadly Wounds, And much effuſe of blood, doth make me faint: Come Yorke, and Richard, Warwicke, and the reſt, I ſtab'd your Fathers boſomes; Split my breſt. Now breath we Lords, good fortune bids vs pauſe, And ſmooth the frownes of War, with peacefull lookes: Some Troopes purſue the bloody-minded Queene, That led calme Henry, though he were a King, As doth a Saile, fill'd with a fretting Guſt Command an Argoſie to ſtemme the Waues. But thinke you (Lords) that Clifford fled with them? No, 'tis impoſsible he ſhould eſcape: (For though before his face I ſpeake the words) Your Brother Richard markt him for the Graue. And whereſoere he is, hee's ſurely dead. Whoſe ſoule is that which takes hir heauy leaue? A deadly grone, like life and deaths departing. See who it is. And now the Battailes ended, If Friend or Foe, let him be gently vſed. Reuoke that doome of mercy, for 'tis Clifford, Who not contented that he lopp'd the Branch In hewing Rutland, when his leaues put forth, But ſet his murth'ring knife vnto the Roote, From whence that tender ſpray did ſweetly ſpring, I meane our Princely Father, Duke of Yorke. From off the gates of Yorke, fetch down ye head, Your Fathers head, which Clifford placed there: In ſtead whereof, let this ſupply the roome, Meaſure for meaſure, muſt be anſwered. Bring forth that fatall Schreechowle to our houſe, That nothing ſung but death, to vs and ours: Now death ſhall ſtop his diſmall threatning ſound, And his ill-boading tongue, no more ſhall ſpeake.