Heywood, Jasper / Seneca, Lucius Annaeus · published 1581 · first performed or written 1559 (Annals) tragedy T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma typicality 0.84 · 538 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
Though Calchas nothing said Yet Hector tells it us himself, of whose seed are we frayed. The worthy blood of noble men oft times we see it plain, Doth after in their heirs succeed and quickly springs again. For so the hornless youngling yet, of high and sturdy best, With lofty neck and branched brow, doth shortly rule the rest. The tender twig that of the lopped stock doth yet remain, To match the tree that bore the bough, in time starts up again With equal top to former wood the room it doth supply, And spreads on soil allow the shade, to heaven his branches high. Thus of one spark by chance yet left it happeneth so full oft. The fire hath quickly caught his force and flam'th again aloft. So scare we yet least Hector's blood might rise ere it be long, Fear casts in all th'extremity and oft interprets wrong. If ye respect our case ye may not blame these old soldiers Though after years and months twice flew, they fear again the wars. And other travails dreading Troy, not yet to be well won, A great thing doth the Grecyans move, the fear of Hector's son. Rid us of fear, this stayeth our fleet, and plucks us back again, And in the haven our navy sticks, till Hector's blood be slain. Count me not fierce for that by fates I Hector's son require, For I as well if chance it would Orestes should desire. But since that needs it must be so, bear it with patient heart: And Suffer that which Agamemnon suffered in good part. Alas my child would God thou wert yet in thy mother's hand. And that I knew what destentes thee held or in what land. For never should the mother's faith her tender child forsake: Though through my breast the enemies all, their cruel weapons strake. Nor though the Greeks with pinching bands of iron my hands had bound, Or else in fervent flame of fire beset my body round. But now my little Child (poor wretch alas) where might he be? Alas, what cruel destiny what chance hath happed to thee? Art thou yet ranging in the fields and wanderest there abroad? Or smothered else in dusty smoke of Troy: or overtrod? Or have the Greeks thee slain (alas) and laughed to see thy blood? Or torn art thou with jaws of beasts? or cast to fowls for food? Dissemble not, hard is for thee Ulysses to deceive, I can full well the mother's crafts and subtlety perceive. The policy of Goddesses Ulysses hath undone. Set all these feigned words aside, tell me where is thy son? Where is Hector? where all the rest that had with Troy their fall Where Priamus? you ask for one but I require of all. Thou shalt constrained be to tell the thing thou dost deny. A happy chance were Death to her that doth desire to die. Who most destres to die, would feignest live when death drawth on, These noble words with present fear of death would soon be gone. Ulysses if ye will constrain Andromacha with fear, Threaten my life for now to die my chief desire it were.
seed 43: T12 · seed 44: T11 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Though Calchas nothing sayde Yet Hector telles it vs himſelfe, of whoſe ſeede are we frayde. The worthy bloud of noble men oft tymes we ſe it playne, Doth after in their heires ſuccede and quickly ſpringes agayne. For so the hornles youngling yet, of high and ſturdy bſte, With lofty necke and braunched brow, doth ſhortly rule the reſt. The tender twig that of the lopped ſtocke doth yet remayne, To match the tree that bare the bough, in time startes vp again With equall top to former wood the roume it doth ſupply, And ſpreads on ſoyle alow the ſhade, to heauen his braunches hye. Thus of one ſparke by chaunce yet left it hapneth ſo ful oft. The fyre hath quickly caught his force and flamth agayn aloft. So ſcare we yet leaſt Hectors bloud might riſe er it be long, Feare caſtes in all thextremity and oft interprets wrong. If ye reſpect our caſe ye may not blame theſe old ſoldiars Though after years and monthes twice flue, they feare again the wars. And other trauails dreadyng Troy, not yet to be wel wonne, A great thing doth the Grecyans moue, the feare of Hectors ſon. Rid vs of feare, this ſtayeth our fleete, and pluckes vs backe agayne, And in the hauen our nauy ſtickes, til Hectors bloud be ſlayne. Count me not feerce for that by fates I Hectors ſonne require, For I as wel if chaunce it would Oreſtes ſhould deſyre. But ſince that needes it muſt be ſo, beare it with pacient hart: And Suffer that which Agamemnon ſuffred in good part. Alas my child would God thou wert yet in thy mothers hand. And that I knew what deſtentes thee held or in what land. For neuer ſhould the mothers fayth her tender child forſake: Though through my breaſt the enmies al, their cruell weapons ſtrake. Nor though the Greekes with pinching bandes of yron my handes had bound, Or els in feruent flame of fyre beſet my body rounde. But now my litle Child (pore wretch alas) where might he bee? Alas, what cruel deſteny what chaunce hath hapt to thee? Art thou yet ranging in the fieldes and wandreſt ther abroad? Or ſmothred elſe in duſty ſmoake of Troy: or ouertroad? Or haue the Greekes thee ſlayne (alas) and laught to ſee thy bloud? Or torne art thou with iawes of beaſtes? or caſt to foules for foode? Diſſemble not, hard is for thee Vliſſes to deceaue, I can ful wel the mothers craftes and ſubtilty perceaue. The pollecy of Goddeſſes Vliſſes hath vndone. Set al theſe fayned wordes aſſyde, tel mee where is thy ſonne? Wher is Hector? where al the reſt that had with Troy their fall Where Priamus? you aſke for one but I require of all. Thou ſhalt conſtrayned be to tell the thing thou doſt deny. A happy chaunce were Death to her that doth deſyre to dye. Who moſt deſtres to die, would fayneſt liue when death drawth on, Theſe noble wordes with preſent feare of death woulde ſoone be gone. Vliſſes if ye wil conſtrayne Andromacha with feare, Threaten my life for now to dye my cheefe deſyre it were.