Hercules Oetaeus (Hercules on Mount Oeta) (Seneca's Tenth Tragedy) · chunk 16 of 44
Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1581 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T37 Riches, poverty and covetousness · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T37: wealth, riches, money, god, rich, poverty, men, learning, poor, ic.
Rich Arabia serves not his pining paunch, Nor western India (a world for to behold) Where Tagus flows with streams of glittering gold. The covetous churl, the greedy gnoffe in deed, In whom from cradle nature so it plants, No hourded heaps his endless hunger feed. In plenty pines the wretch, in wealth he wants. Some other foundlings fancy thus doth guide, To fawn on kings, and still in court to bide. As one disdaining like a Country mome And crooked clown, the plough to follow still: Although the dingthrift daily keep at home A thousand drudges, that his land do Till: Yet wants his will and wisheth wealth therefore, Only to waste on other men the more. Another claweth and flattereth fast the King, By climbing up to tread down every wight: And some at least to blookam Feast to bring. And thus he strives to arm himself with might In blood: but of their ship doth Fortune fail, When safe they think to float with highest sail. Whom Moon at morn on top of Fortune's wheel High swayed hath seen, at fullness of renown, The glading sun hath seen his Sceptre reel, And him from high fall topsy-turvy down. At morn full merry, blithe, in happy plight, But whelmed in woes and brought to bale ere night. These seldom meet hoar hairs and happy days: The Lord that lies on stately crimson bed Sleeps more in fear, then snoring drudge, that lays Upon the country clod his drowsy head. In golden roofs, and haughty courts they keep, Whose dreadful dreams do make them start in sleep. The purple robes lieth waking many a night, And slumbers not, when homely rags do rest. O if as at a Grate espy we might The sorrows, shrined in a princes breast. What pangs, what storms, what terror, O what hell In sighing hearts or proud estates doth dwell? The Irish Seas do never roar so ruff, When wrestling waves, and swelling surges rife, That hoisted are with sturdy northern puff, As fearful fancies do their minds aggrise. But he sighs not, nor cumbered is with care, Whom Fortune hath bequeathed a slender share. In wooden dish and black beech bowl he swills, And heaves it not to mouth with quaking hand. With homely fare his hungry Maw he fills, And leares not back for fear of those that stand With naked swords: but Kings in golden cup Wine blent with blood (most dreadful draughts) do sup. In dainty dish the poison bait is laid, And treason lurks amid the sugared wine A euery bit they quake, and are a frayde, The sword will fall, that hangs but by a twine, And ever as he lifts his head, and drinks, The rebels Knife is at his throat he thinks. Such flattering joys these happy worldlings have. Their outward pomp pretendeth lusty lives. When inwardly they droop, as doth the slave That pines in pangs fast clogged in golden gyves. Strive not in haste, to climb the whirling wheel,
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)
Rich Arabie ſerues not his pyning paunch, Nor weſtern India (aworlde for to behoulde) Where Tagus flowes with ſtreames of glittring goulde. The couetous charle, the greedy gnoffe in deede, In whom from cradell nature ſo it plantes, No hourded heapes his endleſſe hunger feede. In plenty pines the wreatch, in wealth hee wantes. Some other fondlings fanſy thus doth guyde, To fawne on kings, and ſtill in courte to byde. As one diſdayning lyke a Country mome And crooked clowne, the plowe to follow ſtill: Although the dingthryfte dayly keepe at home A thouſand drudges, that his lande doe Tyll: Yet wantes his will and wiſſheth wealth therefore, Onely to waſte on other men the more. Another claweth and flattreth faſt the King, By clymbing vp to treade downe euery wyght: And ſome at leaſt to blookam Feaſte to bryng. And thus hee ſtriues to arme himſelfe with myght In bloude: but of their ſhip doth Fortune fayle, When ſafe they thinke to floate with higheſt ſayle. Whom Moone at morne on top of Fortunes wheele High ſwayed hath ſeene, at fulneſſe of renowne, The glading ſunne hath ſeene his Scepter reele, And him from high fall topſey turuey downe. At morne full merry, blith, in happy plight, But whelmde in woes and brought to bale ere nyght. Theſe ſildome meete hoare hayres and happy dayes: The Lord that lyes on ſtately crimſen bed Sleepes more in feare, then ſnoring drudge, that layes Vpon the countrey clod his drowſy head. In goulden roofes, and hauty courtes they keepe, Whoſe dreadfull dreames doe make them ſtarte in ſleepe. The purple roabes lyeth waking many a night, And ſlombers not, when homely ragges doe reſt. O if as at a Grate eſpy wee might The ſorrowes, ſhrined in a Prynces breaſt. What pangues, what ſtormes, what terrour, O what hell In ſighing heartes or prowde eſtates doth dwell? The Iryſhe Seas doe nener roare ſo ruffe, When wraſtling waues, and ſwelling ſurges ryfe, That hoyſted are with ſturdy northern puffe, As fearefull Fanſyes doe theyr myndes aggryſe. But hee ſighes not, nor combred is with care, Whom Fortune hath bequeath'de a ſlender ſhare. In woodden diſhe and blacke beche Bole hee ſwills, And heaues it not to mouth with quaking hand. With homely fare his hungry Mawe hee fills, And leares not backe for feare of thoſe that ſtand With naked ſwerdes: but Kings in goulden cup Wyne blent with bloude (moſt dreadfull draughts) do ſup. In dainty diſhe the poyſon bayte is layde, And treaſon lurkes amid the ſugred wyne A euery bit they quake, and are a frayde, The ſwerde will fall, that hanges but by a twyne, And euer as hee liftes his head, and drynkes, The rebelles Knyfe is at his throate hee thinkes. Such flattring ioyes theſe happy worldlinges haue. Their outwarde pomp pretendeth luſty liues. When inwardly they drowpe, as doth the ſlaue That pines in pangues faſt clogde in goulden guies. Striue not in haſt, to climbe the whirling wheele,