3 Henry the Sixth (The True Tragedy of Richard Duke of York and the Good King Henry the Sixth) · chunk 45 of 47
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William · published 1623 · first performed or written c.1591 (Annals) history · Pembroke's Men T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.77 · 512 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
And there's for twitting me with perjury. Oh, kill me too. Marry, and shall. Hold, Richard, hold, for we have done too much. Why should she live, to fill the World with words. What? doth she swoon? use means for her recovery. Clarence excuse me to the King my Brother: I'll hence to London on a serious matter, Ere ye come there, be sure to hear some news. What? what? Tower, the Tower. Oh Ned, sweet Ned, speak to thy Mother Boy. Canst thou not speak? O Traitors, Murderers! They that stabbed Caesar, shed no blood at all: Did not offend, nor were not worthy Blame, If this foul deed were by, to equal it. He was a Man; this (in respect) a Child, And Men, ne'er spend their fury on a Child. What's worse than Murderer, that I may name it? No, no, my heart will burst, and if I speak, And I will speak, that so my heart may burst. Butchers and Villains, bloody Cannibals, How sweet a Plant have you untimely cropped: You have no children (Butchers) if you had, The thought of them would have stirred up remorse, But if you ever chance to have a Child, Look in his youth to have him so cut off. As deathsmen you have rid this sweet young Prince. Away with her, go bear her hence perforce. Nay, never bear me hence, dispatch me here: Here sheathe thy Sword, I'll pardon thee my death: What? wilt thou not? Then Clarence do it thou. By heaven, I will not do thee so much ease. Good Clarence do: sweet Clarence do thou do it. Didst thou not hear me swear I would not do it? I, but thou usest to forswear thyself. 'Twas Sin before, but now 'tis Charity. What wilt thou not? Where is that devil's butcher Richard? Hard favoured Richard? Richard, where art thou? Thou art not here; Murder is thy Almsdeed: Petitioners for Blood, thou ne'er puttest back. Away I say, I charge ye bear her hence, So come to you, and yours, as to this Prince. Where's Richard gone. To London all in post, and as I guess, To make a bloody Supper in the Tower. He's sudden if a thing comes in his head. Now march we hence, discharge the common sort With Pay and Thanks, and let's away to London, And see our gentle Queen how well she fares, By this (I hope) she hath a Son for me. Good day, my Lord, what at your Book so hard? I my good Lord: my Lord I should say rather, 'tis sin to flatter, Good was little better: Good Gloster, and good Devil, were alike, And both preposterous: therefore, not Good Lord. Sirrah, leave us to ourselves, we must confer. So flies the wreaklesse shepherd from the Wolfe: So first the harmless Sheep doth yield his Fleece, And next his Throat, unto the Butcher's Knife. What Scene of death hath Rossius now to Act? Suspicion always haunts the guilty mind, The Thief doth fear each bush an Officer,
Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William
Publication year (edition)
1623
First performance / composition (Annals)
c.1591
First performance (BritDrama)
1591 [1587-1592]
Company (BritDrama)
Pembroke's Men
Genre (British Drama)
history
Play type
Adult Professional;Professional
Edition / TCP / DEEP
edition 268 · TCP A11954 · DEEP 5081.22
Edition role
Representative edition — used in the analysis
Position
nodes 2772–2834 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 45 of 47 in this edition
Length
512 words · 705 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.766 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
And ther's for twitting me with periurie. Oh, kill me too. Marry, and ſhall. Hold, Richard, hold, for we haue done too much. Why ſhould ſhee liue, to fill the World with words. What? doth ſhee ſwowne? vſe meanes for her recouerie. Clarence excuſe me to the King my Brother: Ile hence to London on a ſerious matter, Ere ye come there, be ſure to heare ſome newes. What? what? Tower, the Tower. Oh Ned, ſweet Ned, ſpeake to thy Mother Boy. Can'ſt thou not ſpeake? O Traitors, Murtherers! They that ſtabb'd Caeſar, ſhed no blood at all: Did not offend, nor were not worthy Blame, If this foule deed were by, to equall it. He was a Man; this (in reſpect) a Childe, And Men, ne're ſpend their fury on a Childe. What's worſe then Murtherer, that I may name it? No, no, my heart will burſt, and if I ſpeake, And I will ſpeake, that ſo my heart may burſt. Butchers and Villaines, bloudy Caniballes, How ſweet a Plant haue you vntimely cropt: You haue no children (Butchers) if you had, The thought of them would haue ſtirr'd vp remorſe, But if you euer chance to haue a Childe, Looke in his youth to haue him ſo cut off. As deathſmen you haue rid this ſweet yong Prince. Away with her, go beare her hence perforce. Nay, neuer beare me hence, diſpatch me heere: Here ſheath thy Sword, Ile pardon thee my death: What? wilt thou not? Then Clarence do it thou. By heauen, I will not do thee ſo much eaſe. Good Clarence do: ſweet Clarence do thou do it. Did'ſt thou not heare me ſweare I would not do it? I, but thou vſeſt to forſweare thy ſelfe. 'Twas Sin before, but now 'tis Charity. What wilt yu not? Where is that diuels butcher Richard? Hard fauor'd Richard? Richard, where art thou? Thou art not heere; Murther is thy Almeſ-deed: Petitioners for Blood, thou ne're put'ſt backe. Away I ſay, I charge ye beare her hence, So come to you, and yours, as to this Prince. Where's Richard gone. To London all in poſt, and as I gueſſe, To make a bloody Supper in the Tower. He's ſodaine if a thing comes in his head. Now march we hence, diſcharge the common ſort With Pay and Thankes, and let's away to London, And ſee our gentle Queene how well ſhe fares, By this (I hope) ſhe hath a Sonne for me. Good day, my Lord, what at your Booke ſo hard? I my good Lord: my Lord I ſhould ſay rather, Tis ſinne to flatter, Good was little better: 'Good Gloſter, and good Deuill, were alike, And both prepoſterous: therefore, not Good Lord. Sirra, leaue vs to our ſelues, we muſt conferre. So flies the wreakleſſe ſhepherd from ye Wolfe: So firſt the harmleſſe Sheepe doth yeeld his Fleece, And next his Throate, vnto the Butchers Knife. What Scene of death hath Roſsius now to Acte? Suſpition alwayes haunts the guilty minde, The Theefe doth feare each buſh an Officer,