3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 40 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men T43 York and Lancaster: dynastic claims and typicality 0.77 · 481 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T43: henry, king, richard, warwick, york, edward, father, duke, crown, son.
Where is the Post that came from valiant Oxford? How far hence is thy Lord, mine honest fellow? By this at Dunsmore, marching hitherward. How far off is our Brother Montague? Where is the Post that came from Montague? By this at Daintry, with a puissant troop. Say Someruile, what says my loving Son? And by thy guess, how nigh is Clarence now? At Southam I did leave him with his forces, And do expect him here some two hours hence. Then Clarence is at hand, I hear his Drum. It is not his, my Lord, here Southam lies: The Drum your Honour hears, marcheth from Warwick. Who should that be? belike unlooked for friends. They are at hand, and you shall quickly know. Go, Trumpet, to the Walls, and sound a Parle. See how the surly Warwick man's the Wall. Oh unbid spite, is sportful Edward come? Where slept our Scouts, or how are they seduced, That we could hear no news of his repair. Now Warwick, wilt thou open the City Gates, Speak gentle words, and humbly bend thy Knee, Call Edward King, and at his hands beg Mercy, And he shall pardon thee these Outrages? Nay rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence, Confess who set thee up, and plucked thee down, Call Warwick Patron, and be penitent, And thou shalt still remain the Duke of York. I thought at least he would have said the King, Or did he make the jest against his will? Is not a Dukedom, Sir, a goodly gift? I, by my faith, for a poor Earl to give, I'll do thee service for so good a gift. 'Twas I that gave the Kingdom to thy Brother. Why then 'tis mine, if but by Warwick's gift. Thou art no Atlas for so great a weight: And Weakling, Warwick takes his gift again, And Henry is my King, Warwick his Subject. But Warwick's King is Edward's Prisoner: And gallant Warwick, do but answer this, What is the Body, when the Head is off? Alas, that Warwick had no more forecast, But whiles he thought to steal the single Ten, The King was slyly fingered from the Deck: You left poor Henry at the Bishop's Palace, And ten to one you'll meet him in the Tower. 'Tis even so, yet you are Warwick still. Come Warwick, Take the time, kneel down, kneel down: Nay when? strike now, or else the Iron cools. I had rather chop this Hand off at a blow, And with the other, fling it at thy face, Then bear so low a sail, to strike to thee. Sail how thou canst, Have Wind and Tide thy friend, This Hand, fast wound about thy coal-black hair, Shall, whiles thy Head is warm, and new cut off, Writ in the dust this Sentence with thy blood, Wind-changing Warwick now can change no more.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T50 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Where is the Poſt that came from valiant Oxford? How farre hence is thy Lord, mine honeſt fellow? By this at Dunſmore, marching hitherward. How farre off is our Brother Mountague? Where is the Poſt that came from Mountague? By this at Daintry, with a puiſſant troope. Say Someruile, what ſayes my louing Sonne? And by thy gueſſe, how nigh is Clarence now? At Southam I did leaue him with his forces, And doe expect him here ſome two howres hence. Then Clarence is at hand, I heare his Drumme. It is not his, my Lord, here Southam lyes: The Drum your Honor heares, marcheth from Warwicke. Who ſhould that be? belike vnlook'd for friends. They are at hand, and you ſhall quickly know. Goe, Trumpet, to the Walls, and ſound a Parle. See how the ſurly Warwicke mans the Wall. Oh vnbid ſpight, is ſportfull Edward come? Where ſlept our Scouts, or how are they ſeduc'd, That we could heare no newes of his repayre. Now Warwicke, wilt thou ope the Citie Gates, Speake gentle words, and humbly bend thy Knee, Call Edward King, and at his hands begge Mercy, And he ſhall pardon thee theſe Outrages? Nay rather, wilt thou draw thy forces hence, Confeſſe who ſet thee vp, and pluckt thee downe, Call Warwicke Patron, and be penitent, And thou ſhalt ſtill remaine the Duke of Yorke. I thought at leaſt he would haue ſaid the King, Or did he make the Ieaſt againſt his will? Is not a Dukedome, Sir, a goodly gift? I, by my faith, for a poore Earle to giue, Ile doe thee ſeruice for ſo good a gift. 'Twas I that gaue the Kingdome to thy Brother. Why then 'tis mine, if but by Warwickes gift. Thou art no Atlas for ſo great a weight: And Weakeling, Warwicke takes his gift againe, And Henry is my King, Warwicke his Subiect. But Warwickes King is Edwards Priſoner: And gallant Warwicke, doe but anſwer this, What is the Body, when the Head is off? Alas, that Warwicke had no more fore-caſt, But whiles he thought to ſteale the ſingle Ten, The King was ſlyly finger'd from the Deck: You left poore Henry at the Biſhops Pallace, And tenne to one you'le meet him in the Tower. 'Tis euen ſo, yet you are Warwicke ſtill. Come Warwicke, Take the time, kneele downe, kneele downe: Nay when? ſtrike now, or elſe the Iron cooles. I had rather chop this Hand off at a blow, And with the other, fling it at thy face, Then beare ſo low a ſayle, to ſtrike to thee. Sayle how thou canſt, Haue Winde and Tyde thy friend, This Hand, faſt wound about thy coale-black hayre, Shall, whiles thy Head is warme, and new cut off, Write in the duſt this Sentence with thy blood, Wind-changing Warwicke now can change no more.