3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 44 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men unassigned nearest T50 Fleets, armies and generals: war by sea · 514 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T50: sea, honour, general, soldiers, men, ship, fight, soldier, king, vittori.
Thanks gentle Somerset, sweet Oxford thankes. And take his thankes, that yet hath nothing else. Prepare you Lords, for Edward is at hand, Ready to fight: therefore be resolute. I thought no less: it is his Policy, To haste thus fast, to find us unprovided. But he's deceived, we are in readiness. This cheers my heart, to see your forwardness. Here pitch our Battle, hence we will not budge. Brave followers, yonder stands the thorny Wood, Which by the Heaven's assistance, and your strength, Must by the Roots be hew'ne up yet ere Night. I need not add more fuel to your fire, For well I wots, ye blaze, to burn them out: Give signal to the fight, and to it Lords. Lords, Knights, and Gentlemen, what I should say, My tears gainsay: for every word I speak, Ye see I drink the water of my eye. Therefore no more but this: Henry your Sovereign Is Prisoner to the Foe, his State usurped, His Realm a slaughter-house, his Subjects slain, His Statutes canceled, and his Treasure spent: And yonder is the Wolf, that makes this spoil. You fight in justice: then in God's Name, Lords, Be valiant, and give signal to the fight. Now here a period of tumultuous Broils. Away with Oxford to Hames Castle strait: For Somerset, off with his guilty Head. Go bear them hence, I will not hear them speak. For my part, I'll not trouble thee with words. Nor I, but stoop with patience to my fortune. So part we sadly in this troublous World, To meet with joy in sweet Ierusalem. Is Proclamation made, That who finds Edward, Shall have a high Reward, and he his Life? It is, and lo where youthful Edward comes. Bring forth the Gallant, let us hear him speak. What? can so young a Thorn begin to prick? Edward, what satisfaction canst thou make, For bearing Arms, for stirring up my Subjects, And all the trouble thou hast turned me to? Speak like a Subject, proud ambitious York. Suppose that I am now my Father's Mouth, Resign thy Chair, and where I stand, kneel thou, Whilst I propose the selfsame words to thee, Which (Traitor) thou wouldst have me answer to. Ah, that thy Father had been so resolved. That you might still have worn the Petticoat, And ne'er have stolen the Breech from Lancaster. Let Aesop fable in a Winter's Night, His Currish Riddles sorts not with this place. By Heaven, Brat, I'll plague ye for that word. I, thou wast borne to be a plague to men. For God's sake, take away this Captive Scold. Nay, take away this scolding Crooke-backe, rather. Peace wilful Boy, or I will charm your tongue. Untutored Lad, thou art too malapert. I know my duty, you are all undutiful: Lascivious Edward, and thou perjured George, And thou misshapen Dick, I tell ye all, I am your better, Traitors as ye are, And thou usurpest my Father's right and mine. Take that, the likeness of this Railer here. Sprawlest thou? take that, to end thy agony.
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)
Thankes gentle Somerſet, ſweet Oxford thankes. And take his thankes, that yet hath nothing elſe. Prepare you Lords, for Edward is at hand, Readie to fight: therefore be reſolute. I thought no leſſe: it is his Policie, To haſte thus faſt, to finde vs vnprouided. But hee's deceiu'd, we are in readineſſe. This cheares my heart, to ſee your forwardneſſe. Here pitch our Battaile, hence we will not budge. Braue followers, yonder ſtands the thornie Wood, Which by the Heauens aſſiſtance, and your ſtrength, Muſt by the Roots be hew'ne vp yet ere Night. I need not adde more fuell to your fire, For well I wot, ye blaze, to burne them out: Giue ſignall to the fight, and to it Lords. Lords, Knights, and Gentlemen, what I ſhould ſay, My teares gaine-ſay: for euery word I ſpeake, Ye ſee I drinke the water of my eye. Therefore no more but this: Henry your Soueraigne Is Priſoner to the Foe, his State vſurp'd, His Realme a ſlaughter-houſe, his Subiects ſlaine, His Statutes cancell'd, and his Treaſure ſpent: And yonder is the Wolfe, that makes this ſpoyle. You fight in Iuſtice: then in Gods Name, Lords, Be valiant, and giue ſignall to the fight. Now here a period of tumultuous Broyles. Away with Oxford to Hames Caſtle ſtraight: For Somerſet, off with his guiltie Head. Goe beare them hence, I will not heare them ſpeake. For my part, Ile not trouble thee with words. Nor I, but ſtoupe with patience to my fortune. So part we ſadly in this troublous World, To meet with Ioy in ſweet Ieruſalem. Is Proclamation made, That who finds Edward, Shall haue a high Reward, and he his Life? It is, and loe where youthfull Edward comes. Bring forth the Gallant, let vs heare him ſpeake. What? can ſo young a Thorne begin to prick? Edward, what ſatisfaction canſt thou make, For bearing Armes, for ſtirring vp my Subiects, And all the trouble thou haſt turn'd me to? Speake like a Subiect, prowd ambitious Yorke. Suppoſe that I am now my Fathers Mouth, Reſigne thy Chayre, and where I ſtand, kneele thou, Whil'ſt I propoſe the ſelfe-ſame words to thee, Which (Traytor) thou would'ſt haue me anſwer to. Ah, that thy Father had beene ſo reſolu'd. That you might ſtill haue worne the Petticoat, And ne're haue ſtolne the Breech from Lancaſter. Let Aeſop fable in a Winters Night, His Curriſh Riddles ſorts not with this place. By Heauen, Brat, Ile plague ye for that word. I, thou waſt borne to be a plague to men. For Gods ſake, take away this Captiue Scold. Nay, take away this ſcolding Crooke-backe, rather. Peace wilfull Boy, or I will charme your tongue. Vntutor'd Lad, thou art too malapert. I know my dutie, you are all vndutifull: Laſciuious Edward, and thou periur'd George, And thou miſ-ſhapen Dicke, I tell ye all, I am your better, Traytors as ye are, And thou vſurp'ſt my Fathers right and mine. Take that, the likeneſſe of this Rayler here. Sprawl'ſt thou? take that, to end thy agonie.