3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 25 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men T45 Widows, wooing and remarriage typicality 0.85 · 489 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T45: widow, widows, hoord, master, gentlemen, wife, randalls, wit, mistress, married.
'Tis better said then done, my gracious Lord: I am a subject fit to jest withal, But far unfit to be a Sovereign. Sweet Widow, by my State I swear to thee, I speak no more than what my Soul intends, And that is, to enjoy thee for my Love.. And that is more than I will yield unto: I know, I am too mean to be your Queen, And yet too good to be your Concubine. You cavil, Widow, I did mean my Queen. 'Twill grieve your Grace, my Sons should call you Father. No more, than when my Daughters Call thee Mother. Thou art a Widow, and thou hast some Children, And by God's Mother, I being but a Bachelor, Have othersome. Why, 'tis a happy thing, To be the Father unto many Sons: Answer no more, for thou shalt be my Queen. The Ghostly Father now hath done his Shrift. When he was made a Shriver, 'twas for shift. Brothers, you muse what Chat we two have had. The Widow likes it not, for she looks very sad. You'd think it strange, if I should marry her. To who, my Lord? Why Clarence, to myself. That would be ten days wonder at the least. That's a day longer than a Wonder lasts. By so much is the Wonder in extremes. Well, jest on Brothers: I can tell you both, Her suit is granted for her Husband's Lands. My gracious Lord, Henry your Foe is taken, And brought your Prisoner to your Palace Gate. See that he be conveyed unto the Tower: And go we Brothers to the man that took him, To question of his apprehension. Widow go you along: Lords use her honourable. I, Edward will use Women honourably: Would he were wasted, Marrow, Bones, and all, That from his Loins no hopeful Branch may spring, To cross me from the Golden time I look for: And yet, between my Souls desire, and me, The lustful Edward's Title buried, Is Clarence, Henry, and his Son young Edward, And all the vnlook'd-for Issue of their Bodies, To take their Rooms, ere I can place myself: A cold premeditation for my purpose. Why then I do but dream on Sovereignty, Like one that stands upon a Promontory, And spies a far-off shore, where he would tread, Wishing his foot were equal with his eye, And chides the Sea, that sunders him from thence, Saying he'll lad it dry, to have his way: So do I wish the Crown, being so far off, And so I chide the means that keeps me from it, And so (I say) I'll cut the Causes off, Flattering me with impossibilities: My Eyes too quick, my Heart o're-weenes too much, Unless my Hand and Strength could equal them. Well, say there is no Kingdom then for Richard: What other Pleasure can the World afford? I'll make my Heaven in a Ladies Lap,
seed 43: T40 · seed 44: T40 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
'Tis better ſaid then done, my gracious Lord: I am a ſubiect fit to ieaſt withall, But farre vnfit to be a Soueraigne. Sweet Widow, by my State I ſweare to thee, I ſpeake no more then what my Soule intends, And that is, to enioy thee for my Loue. And that is more then I will yeeld vnto: I know, I am too meane to be your Queene, And yet too good to be your Concubine. You cauill, Widow, I did meane my Queene. 'Twill grieue your Grace, my Sonnes ſhould call you Father. No more, then when my Daughters Call thee Mother. Thou art a Widow, and thou haſt ſome Children, And by Gods Mother, I being but a Batchelor, Haue other-ſome. Why, 'tis a happy thing, To be the Father vnto many Sonnes: Anſwer no more, for thou ſhalt be my Queene. The Ghoſtly Father now hath done his Shrift. When hee was made a Shriuer, 'twas for ſhift. Brothers, you muſe what Chat wee two haue had. The Widow likes it not, for ſhee lookes very ſad. You'ld thinke it ſtrange, if I ſhould marrie her. To who, my Lord? Why Clarence, to my ſelfe. That would be tenne dayes wonder at the leaſt. That's a day longer then a Wonder laſts. By ſo much is the Wonder in extremes. Well, ieaſt on Brothers: I can tell you both, Her ſuit is graunted for her Husbands Lands. My gracious Lord, Henry your Foe is taken, And brought your Priſoner to your Pallace Gate. See that he be conuey'd vnto the Tower: And goe wee Brothers to the man that tooke him, To queſtion of his apprehenſion. Widow goe you along: Lords vſe her honourable. I, Edward will vſe Women honourably: Would he were waſted, Marrow, Bones, and all, That from his Loynes no hopefull Branch may ſpring, To croſſe me from the Golden time I looke for: And yet, betweene my Soules deſire, and me, The luſtfull Edwards Title buryed, Is Clarence, Henry, and his Sonne young Edward, And all the vnlook'd-for Iſſue of their Bodies, To take their Roomes, ere I can place my ſelfe: A cold premeditation for my purpoſe. Why then I doe but dreame on Soueraigntie, Like one that ſtands vpon a Promontorie, And ſpyes a farre-off ſhore, where hee would tread, Wiſhing his foot were equall with his eye, And chides the Sea, that ſunders him from thence, Saying hee'le lade it dry, to haue his way: So doe I wiſh the Crowne, being ſo farre off, And ſo I chide the meanes that keepes me from it, And ſo (I ſay) Ile cut the Cauſes off, Flattering me with impoſſibilities: My Eyes too quicke, my Heart o're-weenes too much, Vnleſſe my Hand and Strength could equall them. Well, ſay there is no Kingdome then for Richard: What other Pleaſure can the World affoord? Ile make my Heauen in a Ladies Lappe,