Gascoigne, George / Kinwelmershe, Francis / Yelverton, ChristopherEuripides / Dolce, Lodovico · published 1573 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T34 Thebes and royal catastrophe: siege, sla · 488 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T34: thebes, antigone, polynices, creon, eteocles, war, theban, gods, dear, country.
What stony heart could leave for to lament? O Polynice, now hast thou with thy blood Bought all too dear the title to this realm, That cruel he Eteocles thee rest, And now also hath reft thee of thy life, Alas, what wicked deed can wrath not do? And out alas for me, While thou yet livedst I had a lively hope To have some noble wight to be my fere, By whom I might be crowned a royal Queen: But now, thy hasty death hath done to die This dying hope of mine, that hope henceforth None other wedlock, but tormenting woe, If so these trembling hands for coward dread Dare not presume to end this wretched life. Alas dear dame, let not thy raging grief Heap one mishap upon another's head. O doleful day, wherein my sorry sire Was borne, and yet O more unhappy hour When he was crowned king of stately Thebes, The Hymenaei in unhappy bed, And wicked wedlock, wittingly did join The guiltless mother with her guilty son, Out of which root we be the branches borne, To bear the scourge of their so foul offence: And thou, O father, thou that for this fact, Haste torn chine eyes from thy tormented head, Give ear to this, come forth, and bend thine ear To bloody news, that canst not them behold: Happy in this, for if thine eyes could see Thy sons both slain, and even between them both Thy wife and mother dead, bathed and imbrued All in one blood, then wouldst thou die for dole, And so might end all our unlucky stock. But most unhappy now, that lack of sight Shall linger, life within thy luckless breast, And still tormented in such misery, Shall always die, because thou canst not die. WHy dost thou call out of this darksome den, The lustless lodge of my lamenting years, O daughter dear, thy father's blinded eyes, Into the light I was not worthy of? Or what such sight (O cruel destiny) Without tormenting cares might I behold, That image am of death and not of man? O father mine, I bring unlucky news Unto your ears, your sons are now both slain, Ne doth your wife, that wonted was to guide So piteously your stayless stumbling steps, Now see this light, alas and wellaway. O heap of infinite calamities, And canst thou yet increase when I thought least That any grief more great could grow in thee? But tell me yet, what kind of cruel death Had these three sorry souls? Without offence to speak, dear father mine, The luckless lot, the froward frowning fate That gave you life to end your father's life, Have led your sons to reave each other's life. Of them I thought no less, but tell me yet What causeless death hath caught from me my dear, (What shall I call her) mother or my wife?
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)
What stony hart could leaue for to lament? O Polinice, now hast thou with thy bloud Bought all too deare the title to this realme, That cruell he Eteocles thée reste, And now also hath reft thée of thy life, Alas, what wicked dede can wrath not doe? And out alas for mée▪ Whyle thou yet liuedst I had a liuely hope To haue some noble wight to be my phéere, By whome I might be crownde a royall Quéene: But now, thy hastie death hath done to dye This dying hope of mine, that hope hencefoorth None other wedlocke, but tormenting woe, If so these trembling hands for cowarde dread Dare not presume to ende this wretched life. Alas deare dame, let not thy raging griefe Heape one mishap vpon anothers head. O dolefull day, wherein my sory sire Was borne, and yet O more vnhappie houre When he was crowned king of staely Thebes, The Hymene in vnhappie bed, And wicked wedlocke, wittingly did ioyne The giltlesse mother with hir gile sonne, Out of which roote we be the braunthes borne, To beare the scourge of their so foule offence: And thou, O father, thou that for this facte, Haste torne chine eyes from thy tormented head, Giue eare to this, come foorth, and bende the eare To bloudie newes, that canst not them beholde: Happie in this, for if thine eyes could sée Thy sonnes bothe slayne, and euen betwéene them bothe Thy wife and mother dead, bathed and imbrude All in one bloud, then wouldst thou dye for dole, And so might ende all our vnluckie stocke. But most vnhappie nowe, that lacke of sighte Shall linger, life within thy lucklesse brest, And still tormented in suche miserie, Shall alwayes dye, bicause thou canst not dye. WHy dost thou call out of this darkesome denne, The lustleste lodge of my lamenting yeres, O daughter deare, thy fathers blinded eyes, Into the light I was not worthy of? Or what suche sight (O cruell destenie) Without tormenting cares might I beholde, That image am of deathe and not of man? O father mine, I bring vnluckie newes Unto your eares, your sonnes are nowe both slayne, Ne doth your wife, that wonted was to guyde So piteously your staylesse stumbling sleppes, Now see this light, alas and welaway. O heape of infinite calamities, And canst thou yet encrease when I thought least That any griefe more great could grow in thée? But tell me yet, what kinde of cruell death Had these three sory soules? Without offence to speake, deare father mine, The lucklesse lotte, the frowarde frowning fate That gaue you life to ende your fathers life, Haue ledde your sonnes to reaue eche others life. Of them I thought no lesse, but tell me yet What causelesse death hath caught from me my deare, (What shall I call hir) mother or my wife?