Goffe, Thomas · published 1633 · first performed or written 1617 [c.1613-c.1618] (Annals) tragedy · at University unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 502 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
WHat, is Orestes fled? sure there's some plot, If you dear Queen, but search Elect. well, You'll find she knows whither her brothers gone, If in her heart there be but lodged a thought, Unknown to me this hand shall rip her breast, And search her inparts: but I'll find it out. Mysander, call Electra: O, were that moat ta'en from our comforts beams, No cloud could ever then o'ershade our joys, His life must be cut off without delay, Mischief by mischief finds the safest way; But here's Electra: Why, how now Minion, what a blubbering still? housewife, pray where's your brother, where's my son? Mother, pray where's my father, where's your husband, Hail to my gracious Queen, here's one at door Brings you a message, he will not relate To any, but yourself, he says 'tis sad. Why, the more dismal, the more welcome 'tis, But as for you. Good mother do your worst, No plague can ever make me more accurst, Nothing is worse than death, that I'll not fly. Yes, life is worse to those that fain would die. But where's the messenger? WHat whirlwind rising from the womb of earth Doth raise huge Pelion unto Ossa's top, That both being heaped, I stand upon them both And with an hundred Stentor-drowning voice, Relate unto the world the saddest tale, That ever burdened the weak jaws of man: Why, what portentous news? Amaze us not, Tell us whate'er it be. Were my mind settled, would the gelid fear, That freezeth up my sense, set free my speech, I would unfold a tale which makes my heart Throb in my entrails: when I seem to see't. Relate it quickly, hold's not in suspense. Upon the mount of yonder rising cliff, Which the earth hath made a bulwark for the sea, Whose peerless head is from the streams so high, That whosoever looks down, his brain will swim With a vertigo: The space removed so far The object from the eye, that a tall ship Seemed a swift flying bird: upon this top Saw I two men making complaints to heaven, One's voice distinctly still cried, Father, King, Great Agamemnon: whose diviner soul Fled from thy corpse, exiled by butcher's hands, His friend still sought to keep his dying life With words of comfort, that it should not rush Too violently upon the hands of Fate. He deaf as sea, to which he made his plaints, Still cried out, Agamemnon, I will come, And find thy blessed soul where'er it walk, In what fair Tempe of Elysium soe'er it be, my soul shall find it out; With that his friend knit him within his arms, Striving to hold him but when 'twas no boot, They hand in hand, thus plunged into the main. straight they arose, and strived, methought, for life, But swelling Neptune not regarding friends, Wrapped their embraced limbs in following waves. Until at last, their dear departing souls Hastened to Styx, and I no more cloud see.
seed 43: T44 · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
WHat, is Orestes fled? sure there's some plot, If you deare Queen, but search Elect. well, You'll finde she knowes whither her brothers gone, If in her heart there be but lodg'd a thought, Vnknowne to mee this hand shall rip her brest, And search her inparts: but I'll finde it out. Mysander, call Electra: O, were that moat tane from our comforts beams, No cloud could euer then o'rshade our ioyes, His life must be cut off without delay, Mischiefe by mischiefe findes the safest vvay; But here's Electra: Why, how now Minion, what a blubbering still? Huswife, pray vvhere's your brother, where's my sonne? Mother, pray wher's my father, wher's your husband, Haile to my gratious Queene, here's one at doore Brings you a message, hee vvill not relate To any, but your selfe, he saies tis sad. Why, the more dismall, the more vvelcome 'tis, But as for you. Good mother doe your worst, No plague can euer make me more accurst, Nothing is worse then death, that I'll not flye. Yes, life is worse to those that faine vvould die. But vvhere's the messenger? WHat whirlewind rising from the wombe of earth Doth raise huge Pelion vnto Ossa's top, That both being heapt, I stand vpon them both And with an hundred Stentor-drowning voyce, Relate vnto the world the saddest tale, That euer burdned the weake iawes of man: Why, what portentuous newes? Amaze vs not, Tell vs what e'r it be. Were my minde settled, would the gellid feare, That freezeth vp my sense, set free my speech, I would vnfold a tale which makes my heart Throb in my intralls: when I seeme to see't. Relate it quickly, hold's not in suspence. Vpon the mount of yonder rising cliffe, Which the earth hath made a bulwarke for the sea, Whose peerlesse head is from the streames so high, That whosoe'r lookes downe, his braine will swim With a vertigo: The space remou'd so farre The obiect from the eye, that a tall ship Seem'd a swift flying bird: vpon this top Saw I two men making complaints to heauen, One's voyce distinctly still cry'd, Father, King, Great Agamemnon: whose diuiner soule Fled from thy corps, exil'd by buchers hands, His friend still sought to keepe his dying life With words of comfort, that it should not rush Too violently vpon the hands of Fate. He deafe as sea, to which he made his plaints, Still cryed out, Agamemnon, I will come, And finde thy blessed soule where e'r it walke, In what faire Tempe of Elisium So e'r it be, my soule shall find it out; With that his friend knit him within his armes, Striuing to hold him but when twas no boot, They hand in hand, thus plung'd into the maine. Strait they arose, and striu'd, me thought, for life, But swelling Neptune not regarding friends, Wrapt their embraced limbs in following waues. Vntill at last, their deare departing soules Hastned to Styx, and I no more cloud see.