Norton, Thomas / Sackville, Thomas · published 1565 · first performed or written 1562 [Jan 18] (Annals) tragedy · before the Court T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.83 · 507 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
Oh cruel wight, should any cause prevail To make the stain thy hands with brother's blood But what of thee we will resolve to do Shall yet remain unknown: Thou in the mean Shalt from our royal presence banished be Until our Princely pleasure further shall To the be showed, depart therefore our sight Accursed child. What cruel destiny What froward fate hath sorted us this chance That even in those, where we should comfort find Where our delight now in our aged days Should rest and be, even there our only grief And deepest sorrows to abridge our lief, Most pining cares and deadly thoughts do grave yours Your Grace should now in these grave years of Have found ere this the price of mortal joys, How short they be, how fading hear in earth How full of change, how Brittle our estate, Of nothing sure, save only of the Death, To whom both man and all the world doth owe Their end at last, neither shall nature's power In other sort against your heart prevail, Than as the naked hand whose stroke assays The Armed breast where force doth light in vain Many can yield right grave and sage advise Of patient sprite to others wrapped in woe, And can in speech both rule and conquer kind, Who if by proof, they might feel natures force, Would show themselves men as they are in deed, which now will needs be gods: but what doth mean The sorry cheer of her that here doth come? Oh where is ruth? or where is pity now? Whether is gentle heart and mercy fled? Are they exiled out of our stony breasts Never to make return? is all the world Drowned in blood, and sunk in cruelty? If not in women mercy may be found If not (alas) within the mother's breast To her own child, to her own flesh and blood If ruth be banisshed thence, if pity there May have no place, if there no gentle heart Do live and dwell, where should we seek it than? madam (alas) what means your woeful tale? O silly woman I, why to this hour, Have kind and fortune thus deferred my breath That I should live to see this doleful day Will ever wight believe that such hard heart Could rest within the cruel mother's breast, With her own hand to slay her only son? But out (alas) these eyes beheld the same, They saw the dreary sight, and are become Most ruthful records of the bloody fact. Porrex, (alas) is by his mother slain, And with her hand a woeful thing to tell, While slumbering on his careful bed he rests His heart stalled in with knife is reft of life. O Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours, And pierce this heart with speed, O hateful light, O loathsome lief, O sweet and welcome Death, Dear Eubulus work this we thee beseech. Patient your Grace, perhaps he liveth yet. With wound received, but not of certain death.
nodes 1194–1255 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 20 of 29 in this edition
Length
507 words · 628 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.831 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
Oh cruell wight, ſhulde any cauſe preuaile To make the ſtaine thy hands with brothers blod But what of thee we will reſolue to doe Shal yet remaine vnknowen: Thou in the meane Shalt from our royall preſence banyſhed be Vntill our Princely pleaſure furder ſhall To the be ſhewed, departe therfore our ſight Accurſed childe. What cruell deſtenie What frowarde fate hath ſorted vs this chaunce That euen in thoſe, where we ſhuld comfort find Where our delight nowe in our aged daies Shulde reſt and be, euen there our onelie griefe And depeſt ſorrowes to abridge our liefe, Moſt pynyng cares and deadlie thoughts do graue yours Your Grace ſhuld now in theſe graue yeres of Haue founde ere this the price of mortall Ioyes, Howe ſhorte they be, howe fadyng heare in earth Howe full of chaunge, howe Brittle our eſtate, Of nothynge ſure, ſaue onely of the Death, To whome both man and all the worlde doth owe Their ende at laſt, neither ſhall natures power In other ſorte againſt your harte preuayle, Than as the naked hande whoſe ſtroke aſſayes The Armed breaſt where force doth light in vaine Many can yelde right graue and ſage aduiſe Of pacient ſprite to others wrapped in woe, And can in ſpeache both rule and conquere kinde, Who if by proofe, they might feele natures force, Wold ſhewe them ſelues men as thei are in dede, which now wil nedes be gods: but what doth meane The ſory chere of her that here doth come? Oh where is ruthe? or where is pytie nowe? Whether is gentle harte and mercie fled? Are they exiled out of our ſtony breaſts Neuer to make retourne? is all the worlde Drowned in bloode, and ſoncke in crueltie? If not in women mercie maye be founde If not (alas) within the mothers breſt To her owne childe, to her owne fleſſhe and blood If ruthe be baniſſhed thence, if pytie there Maye haue no place, if there no gentle harte Do lyue and dwell, where ſhuld we ſeeke it than? Madame (alas) what meanes your woful tale? O ſillie woman I, why to this howre, Haue kinde and fortune thus deferred my breathe That I ſhuld lyue to ſee this dolefull daye Will euer wight beleue that ſuche harde harte Coulde reſt within the cruell mothers breaſte, With her owne hande to ſlaye her onely ſonne? But out (alas) theſe eyes behelde the ſame, They ſawe the driery ſight, and are become Moſt ruthfull recordes of the bloodie facte. Porrex, (alas) is by his mother ſlayne, And with her hand a wofull thynge to tell, While ſlomberinge on his carefull bed he reſtes His hart ſtalde in with kniefe is reft of life. O Eubulus, oh drawe this ſworde of ours, And perce this hart with ſpeede, O hatefull light, O lothſome liefe, O ſweete and welcome Death, Dere Eubulus worke this we thee beſeche. Patient your Grace, perhappes he liueth yet. With wounde receued, but not of certayne death.