Hippolytus (Seneca's Fourth Tragedy) · chunk 9 of 30
Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1581 · first performed or written 1567 (Annals) tragedy T38 Death, parting and grief at court typicality 0.75 · 558 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
To cure this puissant breach of ills no hope there is in us: Nor yet to quench his flashing flame: his furies fretting ire, Doth fry in secret boiling breast, and though the smothering fire Be covert close, yet bursting forth in welked face it fries: The sparkling flakes do glowing flash from blood-red rolling eyes She hanging down her pouched groin, abhors the loathsome light, Her skittish wits and wayward mind can fancy nothing right: Her faltering legs do fail her now, down squatting on the ground With sprawling limbs her shittell grief doth cast her in a swound: Now scant she on her lithy neck holds up her giddy head, Nor can commit herself to couch in rest upon her bed. Nor harbouring quietness in heart with dreary dewle and plaint She languisheth through out the night, and now her body faint She bids them up to lift: and now her down again to lay, And now her crispen locks undone abroad she bids display: And straight to wrap them up again. Thus fickle fancy still Doth fleet, nor is contented with his wayward wandering will. No care she casteth on her health nor eats one crumb of bread, With feeble fumbling foot upon the floor eke doth she tread, Her strength alas is quite consumed, her favour sweet doth faint: Nor ruddy sanguine purple die her cherry checks doth paint: With greedy gripes of gnawing grief her pinched limbs do pine: Her faltering legs do stagger now: the gloss of beauty tyne In body Alabaster bright is shrunk away and waste Those Crystal Eyes that wonted were resemblance clear to cast Of radiant Phoebus gold arrays, now nothing gentry shine: Nor bear a spark of Phoebus bright her father's beams divine: The trickling tears tril down her cheeks, dew dampish dropping still, Doth wet her warrye plants, as on the top of Taurus hill The warry snows with lukewarm showers to moisture turned do drop But lo the PRINCE's palace is set open in the top: She lying down upon her golden bed of high estate Hurls of her wonted royal robes which wounded heart doth hate: Maids, have our purple garments hence, & vestures wrought with gold, These crimson robes of scarlet red let not mine eyes behold. And damask weeds, whereon the Seres embraudet branches brave, Whose Silken substance gathered of their trees aloof they have, My bosom shallbe swaddled in with cuttied gaberdine, No golden collar on my neck nor Indian jewels fine, The precious pearls so white shall hang no more now at mine ears, Nor sweet perfumes of Siria shall powder more my hears. My flaring ruffled locks shall dangling hang my neck about And shoulder points: then then apace it shattering in and out. Let winds even blow it where it list, in left hand will I take A quiver of shafts, and in my right a boar-spear will I shake, To cruel child Hippolytus such one his mother was, As fleeting from the frozen Seas those country costs did pass, And drove her herds that bet with trampling feet Th' Athenian soil Or like the trull of Tanais, Or like her will I toil, Of Meotis that on a knot wound up her crispen locks: Thus will I trot with moon like targe among the woods and rocks.
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)
To cure this puiſſant breach of illes no hope there is in vs: Nor yet to quench his flaſhing flame: his furies fretting ire, Doth fry in ſecret boyling breaſt, and though the ſmothrering fire Be couerte cloſe, yet burſting forth in welked face it fryes: The ſparkling flakes doe glowing flaſh from bloudred rowling eyes She hanging downe her pouched groyne, abhors the lothſome light, Her ſkittiſh wits and wayward minde can fancy nothing right: Her faltring legs doe fayle her now, downe ſquatting on the ground With ſprauling lims her ſhittell griefe doth caſt her in aſwound: Now ſcant ſhee on her lithy necke holdes vp her giddy hed, Nor can commit her ſelfe to couche in reſt vpon her bed. Nor harbring quietnes in heart wyth drery dewle and plaint She languiſheth through out the night, and now her body faynt She biddes them vp to lift: and now her downe agayne to lay, And now hir criſpen locks vndone abroade ſhee biddes diſplay: And ſtrayt to wrap them vp agayne. Thus fickle fanſe ſtill Doth fleete, nor is contented with his wayward wandring will. No care ſhe caſteth on her health nor eates one crum of breade, With feeble fumbling foote vpon the floore eke doth ſhe treade, Her ſtrength alas is quight conſumde, her fauor ſweete doth faynt: Nor ruddy ſanguine purple deye her cherry checkes doth paynt: Wyth greedy gripes of gnawing griefe her pinched limmes doe pyne: Her foltring legs doe ſtagger now: the gloſſe of beauty yne In body Alabaſter bright is ſhronke away and waſt Thoſe Criſtall Eyes that wonted were reſemblance cleare to caſt Of radiant Phoebus gold arayes, now nothing gentry ſhyne: Nor beare a ſparke of Phoebus bright her fathers beams deuyne: The trickling teares tril down her chekes, dew dampiſh dropping ſtill, Doth wet her warrye plantes, as on the toppe of Taurus hill The warry ſnowes with lukewarme ſhoures to moiſture turnd do drop But lo the Princes pallace is ſet open in the top: She lying downe vpon her golden bed of high eſtate Hurles of hir wonted royal robes which wounded hart doth hate: Maydes, haue our purple garmentes hence, & veſtures wrought wt gold▪ Theſe crimſō robes of ſcarlet red let not myne eyes behold. And damaſke weedes, wheron the Seres embraudet braunches braue, Whoſe Silken ſubſtaunce gatherd of their trees aloofe they haue, My boſome ſhalbe ſwadled in with cuttied gaberdine, No golden coller on my necke nor Indian iewels fyne▪ The precious pearles ſo whyte ſhal hang no more now at myne eares, Nor ſweete perfumes of Siria ſhal poulder more my heares. My flaryng ruffled lockes ſhal dagling hang my necke aboute And ſhoulder poyntes: then then apace tattring in and out. Let wyndes euen blow it where it liſt, in left hand wil I take A quiuer of ſhaftes, and in my right a Booreſpere wil I ſhake, To cruell child Hippolitus ſuch one his mother was, As fleeting from the froſen Seas thoſe countrey coſtes did paſſe, And draue her hierdes that bet with trampling feete Th' Athenian ſoyle Or like the trull of Tauais, Or like her wil I toyle, Of Meotis that on a knot wounde vp her criſpen lockes▪ Thus wil I trot with moone like targe among the wodes and rockes.