3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 42 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 0.83 · 527 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend, or foe, And tell me who is Victor, York, or Warwick? Why ask I that? my mangled body shows, My blood, my want of strength, my sick heart shows, That I must yield my body to the Earth, And by my fall, the conquest to my foe. Thus yields the Cedar to the Axes edge, Whose Arms gave shelter to the Princely Eagle, Under whose shade the ramping Lion slept, Whose top-branch ouer-peered Jove's spreading Tree, And kept low Shrubs from Winter's powerful Wind. These Eyes, that now are dimmed with Death's black Veil, Have been as piercing as the Midday Sun, To search the secret Treasons of the World: The Wrinkles in my Brows, now filled with blood, Were likened oft to Kingly Sepulchers: For who lived King, but I could dig his Grave? And who durst smile, when Warwick bent his Brow? Lo, now my Glory smeared in dust and blood. My Parks, my Walks, my Manors that I had, Even now forsake me; and of all my Lands, Is nothing left me, but my body's length. Why, what is Pomp, Rule, Reign, but Earth and Dust? And live we how we can, yet die we must. Ah Warwick, Warwick, wert thou as we are, We might recover all our Loss again: The Queen from France hath brought a puissant power. Even now we heard the news: ah, couldst thou fly. Why then I would not fly. Ah Montague, If thou be there, sweet Brother, take my Hand, And with thy Lips keep in my Soul a while. Thou lov'st me not: for, Brother, if thou didst, Thy tears would wash this cold congealed blood, That glewes my Lips, and will not let me speak. Come quickly Montague, or I am dead. Ah Warwick, Montague hath breathed his last, And to the latest gasp, cried out for Warwick: And said, Commend me to my valiant Brother. And more he would have said, and more he spoke, Which sounded like a Cannon in a Vault, That might not be distinguished: but at last, I well might hear, delivered with a groan, Oh farewell Warwick. Sweet rest his Soul: Fly Lords, and save yourselves, For Warwick bids you all farewell, to meet in Heaven. Away, away, to meet the Queen's great power. Thus far our fortune keeps an upward course, And we are graced with wreaths of Victory: But in the midst of this bright-shining Day, I spy a black suspicious threatening Cloud, That will encounter with our glorious Sun, Ere he attain his easeful Western Bed: I mean, my Lords, those powers that the Queen Hath raised in Gallia, have arrived our Coast, And, as we hear, march on to fight with us. A little gale will soon disperse that Cloud, And blow it to the Source from whence it came, Thy very Beams will dry those Vapours up, For every Cloud engenders not a Storm. The Queen is valued thirty thousand strong, And Somerset, with Oxford, fled to her: If she have time to breathe, be well assured Her faction will be full as strong as ours.
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)
Ah, who is nigh? come to me, friend, or foe, And tell me who is Victor, Yorke, or Warwicke? Why aske I that? my mangled body ſhewes, My blood, my want of ſtrength, my ſicke heart ſhewes, That I muſt yeeld my body to the Earth, And by my fall, the conqueſt to my foe. Thus yeelds the Cedar to the Axes edge, Whoſe Armes gaue ſhelter to the Princely Eagle, Vnder whoſe ſhade the ramping Lyon ſlept, Whoſe top-branch ouer-peer'd Ioues ſpreading Tree, And kept low Shrubs from Winters pow'rfull Winde. Theſe Eyes, that now are dim'd with Deaths black Veyle, Haue beene as piercing as the Mid-day Sunne, To ſearch the ſecret Treaſons of the World: The Wrinckles in my Browes, now fill'd with blood, Were lik'ned oft to Kingly Sepulchers: For who liu'd King, but I could digge his Graue? And who durſt ſmile, when Warwicke bent his Brow? Loe, now my Glory ſmear'd in duſt and blood. My Parkes, my Walkes, my Mannors that I had, Euen now forſake me; and of all my Lands, Is nothing left me, but my bodies length. Why, what is Pompe, Rule, Reigne, but Earth and Duſt? And liue we how we can, yet dye we muſt. Ah Warwicke, Warwicke, wert thou as we are, We might recouer all our Loſſe againe: The Queene from France hath brought a puiſſant power. Euen now we heard the newes: ah, could'ſt thou flye. Why then I would not flye. Ah Mountague, If thou be there, ſweet Brother, take my Hand, And with thy Lippes keepe in my Soule a while. Thou lou'ſt me not: for, Brother, if thou didſt, Thy teares would waſh this cold congealed blood, That glewes my Lippes, and will not let me ſpeake. Come quickly Mountague, or I am dead. Ah Warwicke, Mountague hath breath'd his laſt, And to the lateſt gaſpe, cry'd out for Warwicke: And ſaid, Commend me to my valiant Brother. And more he would haue ſaid, and more he ſpoke, Which ſounded like a Cannon in a Vault, That mought not be diſtinguiſht: but at laſt, I well might heare, deliuered with a groane, Oh farewell Warwicke. Sweet reſt his Soule: Flye Lords, and ſaue your ſelues, For Warwicke bids you all farewell, to meet in Heauen. Away, away, to meet the Queenes great power. Thus farre our fortune keepes an vpward courſe, And we are grac'd with wreaths of Victorie: But in the midſt of this bright-ſhining Day, I ſpy a black ſuſpicious threatning Cloud, That will encounter with our glorious Sunne, Ere he attaine his eaſefull Weſterne Bed: I meane, my Lords, thoſe powers that the Queene Hath rays'd in Gallia, haue arriued our Coaſt, And, as we heare, march on to fight with vs. A little gale will ſoone diſperſe that Cloud, And blow it to the Source from whence it came, Thy very Beames will dry thoſe Vapours vp, For euery Cloud engenders not a Storme. The Queene is valued thirtie thouſand ſtrong, And Somerſet, with Oxford, fled to her: If ſhe haue time to breathe, be well aſſur'd Her faction will be full as ſtrong as ours.