Hippolytus (Seneca's Fourth Tragedy) · chunk 19 of 30
Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1581 · first performed or written 1567 (Annals) tragedy T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses typicality 0.74 · 519 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
On thee that next old Arcades in heaven thy seat haste took, She could not wield her weltering wain, and yet no foggy cloud. Eclipsed her gleaming Globe, but we with tonking Pans aloud, 'gan make a noise, agrised at her dead and glowing light We deemed her charmed with Magic verse of Thessant witch's sprite But thou didst cause her business, and madest her in a maze, While at thy pleasant lovely looks the Goddess stood in gaze, That rules the rain of cloudy night she stopped her running race, God grant that seldom biting frost may pinch this comely face. Let seldom scorching Sunny beams thy Cheeks with freckles die: The Marble blue in quarry pits of Parius that doth lie, Bears not so brave a glimpsing gloss as pleasant seems thy face Whose brows with manly majesty support an awful grace. And forehead fraught with gravity of Father's countenance old: His ivory coloured neck although compare to Phoebe ye would, His locks (that never lacking knew) itself displaying wide On shoulder points doth set them out, and also doth them hide. Thy curled forehead seems thee well, and eke thy knotted hair, That crumpled lies undight in thee a manly grace doth bear. Thou Gods (though fierce and valiant) perforce dost chase, and far Dost overmatch in length of limbs, though yet but young thou are. Thou hears as big & boisterous brawns as Hercules: thy breast, Than Champion Mars more burly bolstered out with broader chest: On back of horned-hoofed Steeds if vaulting thou do ride, With Bridle in thine arrive hand more handsome canst thou guide. The trampling Cyllar horse of Spart, then Princely Castor could, Thy leathern loop amid thy dart with former fingers hold, And drive thy lance with all thy pith, the active men of Crete, That with their pitched darts afar do learn the mark to bit. They shall not hurl a slender Reed, but after Parthian guise To shoot an arrow if they list into the open Skies, Unsped without some Bird attaint it shall not light on ground, Unbathed with lukewarm blood of guts in gory smoking wound, And from amid the lofty Clouds down shalt thou fetch thy prey: Few men (mark well the time) have borne beauty unplagued away. God send thee better luck, and grant thy noble parsonage May pass unto the happy steps and stretch to dampish age. What mischief unattempt escapes a Woman's witless rage? Most heinous crimes she means to lay to guiltless youngman's charge And thinks to make her matter good with hair thus rent at large, She towseth eke the pranking of her head with watered plants, Her sly devise no crafty kind of woman's fetches wants. But who is this that in his face such princely port doth bear? Whose lofty looks with stately pace high vauntest his head doth rear? Like lusty young Pyrithous, he looketh in the face, But that a fainting fallow pale his bleakish Cheeks disgrace, And filthy baggage hangeth on his hash hair raised upright, Lo Theseus, it is again restored to earthly light:
seed 43: T29 · seed 44: T27 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
On thee that next old Arcades in heauen thy ſeate haſt tooke, Shee could not weilde her weltring wayne, and yet no foggy cloude. Eclipſt her gleaming Globe, but we with incking Pans aloude, Gan make a noyſe, agriſed at her dead and glowing light We deemd hir charid with Magicke verſe of Theſſant witches ſpright But thou didſt cauſe hir buſines, and madeſt her in a maze, Whyle at thy pleaſant louely lookes the Goddeſſe ſtoode in gaze, That rules the rayne of cloudy night ſhe ſtopt her runing race, God graunt that ſeldome byting froſt may pinch this comely face. Let ſeldome ſcorching Sunny beams thy Cheekes with freckles die: The Marble blue in quarry pittes of Parius that doth lie, Beares not ſo braue a glimſyng gloſſe as pleaſant ſeues thy face Whoſe browes with manly maieſty ſupport an awful grace. And forehead fraught with grauity of Fathers countnaunce old: His Iuory colourd necke although compare to Phoebe ye would, His lockes (that neuer lacking knew) it ſelfe diſplaying wyde On ſhoulder poyntes doth ſet them out, and alſo doth them hyde. Thy curled forhead ſeemes thee well, and eake thy noted hayre, That crumpled lies vndight in thee a manly grace doth beare. Thou Gods (though fierce and valiant) perforce doſt chaſe, and farre Doſt ouermatch in length of limmes, though yet but young thou arre. Thou heares as big & boyſtrous brawnes as Hercules: thy breaſt, Then Champion Mars more bourly bolſtred out with broader cheſt: On back of horntoofed Steedes if vawting thou do ryde, With Bridle in thyne arriue hand more handſome canſt thou guyde. The trampling Cyllar horſe of Spart, then Princely Caſtor could, Thy Letherne loope amid thy dart with former fingers hould, And driue thy launce with all thy pith, the actiue men of Creete, That with their pitched dartes afarre do learne the marke to bit. They ſhall not hurle a ſlender Reede, but after Parthian guyſe To ſhoote an arrow if they liſt into the open Skies, Vnſped without ſome Bird attaynt it ſhal not light on ground, Vnbath'd with lukewarme bloud of guttes in gory ſmoking wound, And from amid the lofty Cloudes downe ſhalt thou fetch thy pray: Few men (marke wel the tyme) haue borne beauty vnplagude away. God ſend thee better lucke, and graunt thy noble perſonage May paſſe vnto the happy ſteps and ſtretch to dumpiſh age. What miſchiefe vnattempt eſcapes a Womans witleſſe rage? Moſt haynous crymes ſhee meanes to lay to guiltles youngmās charge And thinkes to make her matter good with hayre thus rent at large, She towſeth eake the pranking of her head with watred plantes, Her ſlye deuyſe no crafty kind of womans fetches wantes. But who is this that in his face ſuch princely port doth beare? Whoſe lofty lookes with ſtately pace hie vauntſt his head doth reare? Lyke luſty young Pyrithous, he looketh in the face, But that a faynting fallow pale his bleakiſh Cheekes diſgrace, And filthy baggage hangeth on his haſh hayre rayſde vpright, Lo Theſeus, it is agayne reſtoard to earthly light: