Anonymous / Marlowe, Christopher / Shakespeare, William / Nashe, Thomas · published 1623 · first performed or written 1590 (Annals) history · Derby's (Strange's) Men T43 York and Lancaster: dynastic claims and typicality 0.72 · 526 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T43: henry, king, richard, warwick, york, edward, father, duke, crown, son.
HVng be the heavens with black, yield day to night; Comets importing change of Times and States, Brandish your crystal Tresses in the Sky, And with them scourge the bad revolting Stars, That have consented unto Henry's death: King Henry the Fift, too famous to live long, England ne'er lost a King of so much worth. England ne'er had a King until his time: Virtue he had, deserving to command, His brandished Sword did blind men with his beams, His Arms spread wider than a Dragon's Wings: His sparkling Eyes, replete with wrathful fire, More dazzled and drove back his Enemies, Then midday Sun, fierce bent against their faces. What should I say? his Deeds exceed all speech: He ne'er lift up his Hand, but conquered. We mourn in black, why mourn we not in blood? Henry is dead, and never shall revive: Upon a Wooden Coffin we attend; And Deaths dishonourable Victory, We with our stately presence glorify, Like Captives bound to a Triumphant Car. What? shall we curse the Planets of Mishap, That plotted thus our Glories overthrow? Or shall we think the subtle-witted French, Conjurers and Sorcerers, that afraid of him, By Magic Verses have contrived his end. He was a King, blessed of the King of Kings. Unto the French, the dreadful judgement-day So dreadful will not be, as was his sight. The Battles of the Lord of Hosts he fought: The Church's Prayers made him so prosperous. The Church? where is it? Had not Churchmen prayed, His thread of Life had not so soon decayed. None do you like, but an effeminate Prince, Whom like a Schoolboy you may over-awe. Gloster, what ere we like, thou art Protector, And lookest to command the Prince and Realm. Thy Wife is proud, she holdeth thee in awe, More than God or Religious Churchmen may. Name not Religion, for thou lov'st the Flesh, And ne'er throughout the year to Church thou go'st, Except it be to pray against thy foes. Cease, cease these jars, & rest your minds in peace: Let's to the Altar: Heralds wait on us; In stead of Gold, we'll offer up our Arms, Since Arms avail not, now that Henry's dead, Posterity await for wretched years, When at their Mother's moistened eyes, Babes shall suck, Our Isle be made a Nourish of salt Tears, And none but Women left to wail the dead. Henry the Fift, thy Ghost I invocate: Prosper this Realm, keep it from Civil Broils, Combat with adverse Planets in the Heavens; A far more glorious Star thy Soul will make, Then Iulius Caesar, bright— My honourable Lords, health to you all: Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, Of loss, of slaughter, and discomfiture: Guienne, Champagne, Rheimes, Orleans, Paris, Guysors, Poitiers, are all quite lost. What sayst thou man, before dead Henry's Coarse? Speak softly, or the loss of those great Towns Will make him burst his Lead, and rise from death. Is Paris lost? is Rouen yielded up? If Henry were recalled to life again, These news would cause him once more yield the Ghost. How were they lost? what treachery was used?
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)
HVng be ye heauens with black, yield day to night; Comets importing change of Times and States, Brandiſh your cryſtall Treſſes in the Skie, And with them ſcourge the bad reuolting Stars, That haue conſented vnto Henries death: King Henry the Fift, too famous to liue long, England ne're loſt a King of ſo much worth. England ne're had a King vntill his time: Vertue he had, deſeruing to command, His brandiſht Sword did blinde men with his beames, His Armes ſpred wider then a Dragons Wings: His ſparkling Eyes, repleat with wrathfull fire, More dazled and droue back his Enemies, Then mid-day Sunne, fierce bent againſt their faces. What ſhould I ſay? his Deeds exceed all ſpeech: He ne're lift vp his Hand, but conquered. We mourne in black, why mourn we not in blood? Henry is dead, and neuer ſhall reuiue: Vpon a Woodden Coffin we attend; And Deaths diſhonourable Victorie, We with our ſtately preſence glorifie, Like Captiues bound to a Triumphant Carre. What? ſhall we curſe the Planets of Miſhap, That plotted thus our Glories ouerthrow? Or ſhall we thinke the ſubtile-witted French, Coniurers and Sorcerers, that afraid of him, By Magick Verſes haue contriu'd his end. He was a King, bleſt of the King of Kings. Vnto the French, the dreadfull Iudgement-Day So dreadfull will not be, as was his ſight. The Battailes of the Lord of Hoſts he fought: The Churches Prayers made him ſo proſperous. The Church? where is it? Had not Church-men pray'd, His thred of Life had not ſo ſoone decay'd. None doe you like, but an effeminate Prince, Whom like a Schoole-boy you may ouer-awe. Gloſter, what ere we like, thou art Protector, And lookeſt to command the Prince and Realme. Thy Wife is prowd, ſhe holdeth thee in awe, More then God or Religious Church-men may. Name not Religion, for thou lou'ſt the Fleſh, And ne're throughout the yeere to Church thou go'ſt, Except it be to pray againſt thy foes. Ceaſe, ceaſe theſe Iarres, & reſt your minds in peace: Let's to the Altar: Heralds wayt on vs; In ſtead of Gold, wee'le offer vp our Armes, Since Armes auayle not, now that Henry's dead, Poſteritie await for wretched yeeres, When at their Mothers moiſtned eyes, Babes ſhall ſuck, Our Ile be made a Nouriſh of ſalt Teares, And none but Women left to wayle the dead. Henry the Fift, thy Ghoſt I inuocate: Proſper this Realme, keepe it from Ciuill Broyles, Combat with aduerſe Planets in the Heauens; A farre more glorious Starre thy Soule will make, Then Iulius Caeſar, bright— My honourable Lords, health to you all: Sad tidings bring I to you out of France, Of loſſe, of ſlaughter, and diſcomfiture: Guyen, Champaigne, Rheimes, Orleance, Paris, Guyſors, Poictiers, are all quite loſt. What ſay'ſt thou man, before dead Henry's Coarſe? Speake ſoftly, or the loſſe of thoſe great Townes Will make him burſt his Lead, and riſe from death. Is Paris loſt? is Roan yeelded vp? If Henry were recall'd to life againe, Theſe news would cauſe him once more yeeld the Ghoſt. How were they loſt? what trecherie was vs'd?