Gascoigne, George / Kinwelmershe, Francis / Yelverton, ChristopherEuripides / Dolce, Lodovico · published 1575 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T34 Thebes and royal catastrophe: siege, sla · 488 words · other edition — not in the analysis
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 Polynices, now hast thou with thy blood Bought all too dear the title to this realm, That cruel he Eteocles thee refte, And now also hath rest 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 Hymenei 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 thine 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 that, 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 refte, And now alſo hath reſt thée of thy life, Alas, what wicked dede can wrath not doe? And out alas for mee. 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 ſtately Thebes The Hymenei in vnhappie bed, And wicked wedlocke, wittingly did ioyne, The giltleſſe mother with hir giltie ſonne, Out of which roote we be the braunches borne, To beare the ſcourge of their ſo foule offence: And thou, O father, thou that for this facte, Haſte torne thine eyes from thy tormented head, Giue eare to this, come foorth, and bende thine eare To bloudie newes, that canſt not them beholde: Happie in that, 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 Vnto your eares, your ſonnes are nowe both ſlayne, Ne doth your wife (that wonted was to guyde So piteouſly your ſtayleſſe ſtumbling ſteppes) Now ſée 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 thrée 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?