Heywood, Jasper / Seneca, Lucius Annaeus · published 1581 · first performed or written 1559 (Annals) tragedy T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma typicality 0.86 · 539 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
With stripes with fire tormenting death we will the truth out wrest And dolour shall thee force to tell the secrets of thy breast. And what thy heart hath deepest hid for pain thou shalt express, Oft times th'extremity prevails much more than gentleness, Set me in midst of burning flame with wounds my body rent, Use all the means of cruelty that ye may all invent. Prove me with thirst and hunger both, and every torment try, Pierce through my sides with burning irons in prison let me lie. Spare not the worst ye can devise (if aught be worse than this) Yet never get ye more of me. I wot not where he is. It is but vain to hide the thing that straight ye will detect No fears may move the mother's heart, she doth them all neglect. This tender love ye bear your child, wherein ye stand so stout, So much more circumspectly warnth, the Greeks to look about. lest after ten years tract of time and battle borne so far, Some one should live that on our children might renew the war, As for myself, what Calchas sayth, I would not fear at all But on Telemachus I dread, the smart of wars would fall Now will I make Ulysses glad and all the Greeks also, Needs must thou woeful wretch confess declare thy hidden woe. Rejoice ye sons of Atreus there is no cause of dread. Be glad Ulysses tell the Greeks that Hector's son is dead. By what assurance proves thou that? how shall we credit thee: whatever thing the enemies hand may threaten hap to me Let speedy fates me slay forthwith, and earth me hide at ones And after death from tomb again, remove ye: Hector's bones, Except my son already now, do rest among the dead. And that except Astyanax into his tomb be led. Then fully are the fates fulfilled with Hector's child's decease. Now shall I bear the Grecians word, of sure and certain peace. Ulysses why what dost thou now the Greeks will every chone, Believe thy words, whom credit'st thou? the mother's tale alone. Thinkst thou for safeguard of her child the mother will not lie? And dread the more the worse mischance to give her son to die? Her faith she binds with bond of oath, the truth to verify, What thing is more of weight to fear, than so to swear and lie? Now call thy crafts together all, bestir thy wits and mind, And show thyself Ulysses now, the truth herein to find. Search well thy mother's mind: behold she weeps and waileth out, And here and there with doubtful pace, she rangeth all about, Her careful ears she doth apply to hearken what I say, More frayed she seems then sorrowful. Now work some wily way. For now most need of wit there is and crafty policy, Yet once again by other means I will the mother try. Thou wretched woman mayst rejoice, that dead he is: (alas) More doleful death by destiny for him decreed there was. From turret's top to have been cast and cruelly been slain. Which only tower of all the rest doth yet in Troy remain.
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)
With ſtripes with fyre tormenting death we wil the truth out wreſt And dolour ſhal thee force to tel the ſecrets of thy breſt. And what thy hart hath depeſt hid for payne thou ſhalt expreſſe, Oft tymes thextremity preuayles much more then gentleneſſe, Set me in midſt of burning flame with woundes my body rent, Vſe al the meanes of cruelty that ye may al inuent. Proue me with thirſt and hunger both, and euery torment trye, Pearce through my ſides with burning yrons in priſon let me lie. Spare not the worſt ye can deuyſe (if ought be worſe then this) Yet neuer get ye more of me. I wot not where he is. It is but vayne to hyde the thinge that ſtrayght ye wil deteckt No feares may moue the mothers hart, ſhe doth them al neglect. This tender loue ye beare your child, wherin ye ſtand ſo ſtoute, So much more circumſpectly warnth, the Greekes to looke about. Leaſt after ten yeares tract of tyme and battell borne ſo farre, Some one ſhould liue that on our children might renew the warre, As for my ſelfe, what Calchas ſayth, I would not feare at all But on Telemachus I dread, the ſmart of warres would fall Now will I make Vliſſes glad and all the Greekes alſo, Needes muſt thou woeful wretch confeſſe declare thy hidden woe. Reioyce ye ſonnes of Atreus there is no cauſe of dread. Be glad Vliſſes tell the Greekes that Hectors ſonne is dead. By what aſſurance proues thou that? how ſhal we credite thee: What euer thing the enmies hand may thea en hap to me Let ſpeedy fates me ſlay forthwith, and earth me hyde at ones And after death from tombe agayne, remoue ye: Hectors bones, Except my ſonne already now, do reſt among the dead. And that except Aſtianax into his tomb be led. Then fully are the fates fulfild with Hectors childes diſceace. Now ſhal I beare the Grecians word, of ſure and certayne peace. Vliſſes why what doſt thou now the Greekes wil euery chone, Beleeue thy wordes, whom creditſt thou? the mothers tale alone. Thinkſt thou for ſauegard of her child the mother wil not lye? And dread the more the worſe miſchaunce to geue her ſonne to die? Her fayth ſhe byndes with bond of oth, the truth to verify, What thing is more of weight to feare, then ſo to ſweare and lye? Now call thy craftes togeather al, beſtirre thy wittes and mynd, And ſhew thy ſelfe Vliſſes now, the truth herein to find. Search wel thy mothers mynd: behold ſhee weepes and wayleth out, And here and ther with doubtful pace, ſhe raungeth al aboute, Her careful ears ſhe doth apply to harken what I ſay, More frayd ſhee ſeemes then ſorrowful. Now worke ſome wily way. For now moſt neede of wit there is and crafty pollecy, Yet one agayne by other meanes I wil the mother trye. Thou wretched woman maiſt reioyce, that dead he is: (alas) More doleful death by deſtenie for him decreed ther was. From Turrets top to haue bene caſt and cruelly bene ſlayne. Which onely towre of all the reſt doth yet in Troy remayne.