Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Neville, Alexander · published 1581 · first performed or written 1563 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
enthralled in bondage vile to fear. For fear doth often bring Destinies that dreaded been and mischiefs feared upon us fling. Yea many a man hath come unto his fatal end by fear. Wherefore set peevish fear aside, and worthy courage bear. And thou that subject art to death. Regard thy latter day. Think no man blessed before his end. Advise thee well and stay. Be sure his life, and death, and all, be quite exempt from misery: Ere thou do once presume to say: this man is blessed and happy. But out alas, see where he comes: a wretch withouten Guide, Bereft of sight. Half spoiled of life: without all Pomp, and Pride (That unto king's Estate belong.) WEll, well, 'tis done: more yet? No, no, no mischiefs more remain. My Father's Rites performed are. What God on miser's pains That rues within this Cloud hath rolled, and wrapped my wretched Pate. Ah sir: this is a life alone. This is a happy State. This is a case e'en fit for thee, for thee thou wretch, for thee. From whose accursed sight the Sun, the Stars and all do flee. Yet mischiefs more, who gives to do? The dreadful day I have Escaped. Thou filthy Parricide: thou vile mischievous Slave. Unto thy right hand nought thou ow'st, all things performed be. O woe is me that ever I lived this luckless day to see. Where am I now? Alas, alas, the light and all doth me Abhor: O wretched OEdipus this look is first for thee. See, see, where Iocasta comes, with fierce and furious mood, Quite past herself. For very rage she frets and waxeth wood. Much like to Cadmus daughter mad, who late her Son did kill. fain would she speak her mind: for sear (alas) she dares not: still She stays, and yet from out her breast these ills have quite exiled All shame fastness. See how she looks, with countenance fierce & wild. fain would I speak, I am afraid. For what should I thee call My Son? doubt not. Thou art my Son. My Son thou art for all These mischiefs great: alas, alas I shame my Son to see. O cruel Son. Where dost thou turn thy Face? Why dost thou slay From me. From me thy Mother dear? Why dost thou shun my sight? And leave me thus in misery, with Cares consumed quite. Who troubles me? Let me alone. I thought not to be found: Who now restores mine Eyes to me, Mother? or Mother's sound? Our labour all is spent in vain, now may we meet no more. The Seas divide those meetings vile that we have had before. The gaping earth divide us both, th'one from th'other quite. Still let our feet repugnant be. So shall I shun the light That most of all me grieves. So shall I space obtain to wail These bleeding woes on every side, that do my thoughts assail. The Destentes are in fault. Blame them, Alas, alas, not we.
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)
Enthrald in bondage vyle to feare. For feare doth often bring Deſtnies that dreaded ben and miſchiefs feard vpon vs fling. Yea many a man hath come vnto his fatall ende by feare. Wherefore ſet peuiſh feare aſide, and worthy courage beare. And thou that ſubiect art to death. Regard thy latter day. Thinke no man bleſt before his ende. Aduiſe thee well and ſtay. Be ſure his lyfe, and death, and all, be quight exempt from myſery: Ere thou do once preſume to ſay: this man is bleſt and happy. But out alas, ſee where he coms: a wretch withouten Guide, Bereft of ſight. Halfe ſpoyld of lyfe: without all Pomp, and Pride (That vnto Kings Eſtate belonge.) WEll, well, tis done: more yet? No, no, no miſchiefs more remaynee. My Fathers Rytes performed are. What God on Myſers paynes That rues within this Cloud hath rolde, and wrapt my wretched Pate. Ah ſir: this is a life alone. This is a happy State. This is a caſe ene fit for thee, for thee thou wretch, for thee. From whoſe accurſed ſight the Sun, the Stars and all doe flee. Yet miſchiefs more, who giues to doe? The dreadfull day I haue Eſcapt. Thou filthy Paracide: thou vile miſchieuous Slaue. Vnto thy right hand nought thou owſt, all things performed bee. O woe is mee that euer I liu'de this luckleſſe day to ſee. Where am I now? Alas, alas, the light and all doth mee Abhor: O wretched OEdipus this looke is firſt for thee. See, ſee, where Iocaſta coms, with fierce and furious moode, Quight paſt her ſelfe. For very rage ſhee frets and waxeth woode. Much like to Cadmus daughter mad, who late hir Sonne did kill. Fayne would ſhe ſpeake her mynde: for ſeare (alas) ſhe dares not: ſtill Shee ſtayes, and yet from out her breaſt theſe ills haue quight exilde All ſhame faſtnes. See how ſhee lookes, with coū 'naunce fierce & wilde. Fayne would I ſpeake, I am afraide. For what ſhould I thee call My Son? doubt not. Thou art my Son. My Son thou art for all Theſe miſchiefs great: alas, alas I ſhame my Son to ſee. O cruell Son. Where doſt thou turn thy Face? Why doſt thou ſlee From me. From me thy Mother deare? Why doſt thou ſhun my ſight? And leaue me thus in miſery, with Cares conſumed quight. Who troubles me? Let me alone. I thought not to be founde: Who now reſtores myne Eyes to mee, Mother? or Mothers ſounde? Our labour all is ſpent in vayne, now may wee meete no more. The Seas deuide thoſe meetings vile that wee haue had before. The gaping earth deuide vs both, th'one from th'other quight. Still let our feete repugnant bee. So ſhall I ſhun the light That moſt of all me grieues. So ſhall I ſpace obtaine to wayle Theſe bleeding woes on euery ſide, that doe my thoughtes aſſayle. The Deſtentes are in fault. Blame them, Alas, alas, not wee.