3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 39 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T18 Rebels, barons and the king's wars at ho · 489 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T18: king, lord, wallace, earl, edward, england, scotland, rebels, bruce, english.
What counsel, Lords? Edward from Belgia, With hasty Germans, and blunt Hollanders, Hath passed in safety through the Narrow Seas, And with his troops doth march amain to London, And many giddy people flock to him. Let's levy men, and beat him back again, A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which being suffered, Rivers cannot quench. In Warwickshire I have truehearted friends, Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in War, Those will I muster up: and thou Son Clarence Shalt stir up in Suffolk, Norfolk, and in Kent, The Knights and Gentlemen, to come with thee. Thou Brother Montague, in Buckingham, Northampton, and in Leicestershire, shalt find Men well inclined to hear what thou command'st. And thou, brave Oxford, wondrous well beloved, In Oxfordshire shalt muster up thy friends. My Sovereign, with the loving Citizens, Like to his Island, girt in with the Ocean, Or modest Diana, circled with her Nymphs, Shall rest in London, till we come to him: Fair Lords take leave, and stand not to reply. Farewell my Sovereign. Farewell my Hector, and my Troy's true hope. In sign of truth, I kiss your Highness' Hand. Wellminded Clarence, be thou fortunate. Comfort, my Lord, and so I take my leave. And thus I seal my truth, and bid adieu. Sweet Oxford, and my loving Montague, And all at once, once more a happy farewell. Farewell, sweet Lords, let's meet at Coventry. Here at the Palace will I rest a while. Cousin of Exeter, what thinks your Lordship? Me thinks, the Power that Edward hath in field, Should not be able to encounter mine. The doubt is, that he will seduce the rest. That's not my fear, my meed hath got me fame: I have not stopped mine ears to their demands, Nor posted off their suits with slow delays, My pity hath been balm to heal their wounds, My mildness hath allayed their swelling griefs, My mercy dried their water-flowing tears. I have not been desirous of their wealth, Nor much oppressed them with great Subsidies, Nor forward of revenge, though they much erred. Then why should they love Edward more than me? No Exeter, these Grace's challenge Grace: And when the Lion fawns upon the Lamb, The Lamb will never cease to follow him. Hark, hark, my Lord, what Shouts are these? Seize on the shamefaced Henry, bear him hence, And once again proclaim us King of England. You are the Fount, that makes small Brooks to flow, Now stops thy Spring, my Sea shall suck them dry, And swell so much the higher, by their ebb. Hence with him to the Tower, let him not speak. And Lords, towards Coventry bend we our course, Where peremptory Warwick now remains: The Sun shines hot, and if we use delay, Cold biting Winter mars our hoped-for Hay. Away betimes, before his forces join, And take the great-growne Traitor unawares: Brave Warriors, march amain towards Coventry.
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)
What counſaile, Lords? Edward from Belgia, With haſtie Germanes, and blunt Hollanders, Hath paſs'd in ſafetie through the Narrow Seas, And with his troupes doth march amaine to London, And many giddie people flock to him. Let's leuie men, and beat him backe againe, A little fire is quickly trodden out, Which being ſuffer'd, Riuers cannot quench. In Warwickſhire I haue true-hearted friends, Not mutinous in peace, yet bold in Warre, Thoſe will I muſter vp: and thou Sonne Clarence Shalt ſtirre vp in Suffolke, Norfolke, and in Kent, The Knights and Gentlemen, to come with thee. Thou Brother Mountague, in Buckingham, Northampton, and in Leiceſterſhire, ſhalt find Men well enclin'd to heare what thou command'ſt. And thou, braue Oxford, wondrous well belou'd, In Oxfordſhire ſhalt muſter vp thy friends. My Soueraigne, with the louing Citizens, Like to his Iland, gyrt in with the Ocean, Or modeſt Dyan, circled with her Nymphs, Shall reſt in London, till we come to him: Faire Lords take leaue, and ſtand not to reply. Farewell my Soueraigne. Farewell my Hector, and my Troyes true hope. In ſigne of truth, I kiſſe your Highneſſe Hand. Well-minded Clarence, be thou fortunate. Comfort, my Lord, and ſo I take my leaue. And thus I ſeale my truth, and bid adieu. Sweet Oxford, and my louing Mountague, And all at once, once more a happy farewell. Farewell, ſweet Lords, let's meet at Couentry. Here at the Pallace will I reſt a while. Couſin of Exeter, what thinkes your Lordſhip? Me thinkes, the Power that Edward hath in field, Should not be able to encounter mine. The doubt is, that he will ſeduce the reſt. That's not my feare, my meed hath got me fame: I haue not ſtopt mine eares to their demands, Nor poſted off their ſuites with ſlow delayes, My pittie hath beene balme to heale their wounds, My mildneſſe hath allay'd their ſwelling griefes, My mercie dry'd their water-flowing teares. I haue not been deſirous of their wealth, Nor much oppreſt them with great Subſidies, Nor forward of reuenge, though they much err'd. Then why ſhould they loue Edward more then me? No Exeter, theſe Graces challenge Grace: And when the Lyon fawnes vpon the Lambe, The Lambe will neuer ceaſe to follow him. Hearke, hearke, my Lord, what Shouts are theſe? Seize on the ſhamefac'd Henry, beare him hence, And once againe proclaime vs King of England. You are the Foun, that makes ſmall Brookes to flow, Now ſtops thy Spring, my Sea ſhall ſuck them dry, And ſwell ſo much the higher, by their ebbe. Hence with him to the Tower, let him not ſpeake. And Lords, towards Couentry bend we our courſe, Where peremptorie Warwicke now remaines: The Sunne ſhines hot, and if we vſe delay, Cold biting Winter marres our hop'd-for Hay. Away betimes, before his forces ioyne, And take the great-growne Traytor vnawares: Braue Warriors, march amaine towards Couentry.