Norton, Thomas / Sackville, Thomas · published 1570 · first performed or written 1562 [Jan 18] (Annals) tragedy · before the Court T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.79 · 489 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
O heavens sand down the flames of your revenge, Destroy I say with flash of wreakful fire The traitor son, and then the wretched sire. But let us go, that yet perhaps I may Die with revenge, and pease the hateful gods. The lust of kingdom knows no sacred faith, No rule of reason, no regard of right, No kindly love, no fear of heavens wrath: But with contempt of Gods, and man's despite, Through bloody slaughter, doth prepare the ways To fatal sceptre and accursed reign. The son so loathes the father's linger days, Ne dreads his hand in brother's blood to stain. O wretched prince, ne dost thou yet record The yet fresh murders done within the land Of thy forefathers, when the cruel sword Bereft Morgan his life with cousins hand? Thus fatal plagues pursue the guilty race, Whose murderous hand imbrued with guiltless blood Asks vengeance still before the heavens face, With endless mischiefs on the cursed brood. The wicked child thus brings to woeful sire The mournful plaints, to waste his very life. Thus do the cruel flames of civil fire Destroy the parted reign with hateful strife. And hence doth spring the well from which doth flow The dead black streams of mourning, plaints & woe. Why should I live, and liuger forth my time In longer life to double my distress? O me most woeful wight, whom no mishap Long ere this day could have bereaved hence. Might not these hands by fortune, or by fate, Have pierced this breast, and life with iron rest? Or in this palace here, where I so long Have spent my days, could not that happy hour Once, once have happed in which these hugy frames With death by fall might have oppressed me? Or should not this most hard and cruel soil, So often where I have priest my wretched steps, Sometime had ruth of mine accursed life, To rend in twain swallow me therein? So had my bones possessed now in peace Their happy grave within the closed ground, And greedy worms had gnawn this pined heart Without my feeling pain: so should not now This living breast remain the ruthful tomb, Wherein my heart yelden to death is graved: Nor dreary thoughts with pangs of pining grief My doleful mind had not afflicted thus. O my beloved son: O my sweet child, My dear Ferrex, my joy, my lives delight. Is my beloved son, is my sweet child, My dear Ferrex, my joy, my lives delight. Murdered with cruel death? O hateful wretch, O heinous traitor both to heaven and earth. Thou Porrex, thou this damned deed hast wrought, Thou Porrex, thou shalt dearly buy the same. Traitor to kin and kind, to sire and me, To thine own flesh, and traitor to thyself. The Gods on thee in hell shall wreak their wrath, And here in earth this hand shall take revenge,
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 947–1007 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 16 of 29 in this edition
Length
489 words · 629 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.793 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: T7 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
O heauens send down the flames of your reuenge, Destroy I say with flash of wrekefull fier The traitour sonne, and then the wretched sire. But let vs go, that yet perhappes I may Die with reuenge, and peaze the hatefull gods. The lust of kingdome knowes no sacred faith, No rule of reason, no regarde of right, No kindely loue, no feare of heauens wrath: But with contempt of Goddes, and mans despite, Through blodie slaughter, doth prepare the waies To fatall scepter and accursed reigne. The sonne so lothes the fathers lingering daies, Ne dreades his hand in brothers blode to staine. O wretched prince, ne doest thou yet recorde The yet fresh murthers done within the lande Of thy forefathers, when the cruell sworde Bereft Morgan his life with cosyns hand? Thus fatall plagues pursue the giltie race, Whose murderous hand imbrued with giltlesse blood Askes vengeaunce still before the heauens face, With endlesse mischiefes on the cursed broode. The wicked childe thus bringes to wofull sire The mournefull plaintes, to wast his very life. Thus do the cruell flames of ciuyll fier Destroy the parted reigne with hatefull strife. And hence doth spring the well from which doth flow The dead black streames of mourning, plaints & woe. Why should I lyue, and liuger forth my time In longer life to double my distresse? O me most wofull wight, whom no mishappe Long ere this day could haue bereued hence. Mought not these handes by fortune, or by fate, Haue perst this brest, and life with iron rest? Or in this palace here, where I so long Haue spent my daies, could not that happie houre Once, once haue hapt in which these hugie frames With death by fall might haue oppressed me? Or should not this most hard and cruell soile, So oft where I haue prest my wretched steps, Sometime had ruthe of myne accursed life, To rende in twayne swallow me therin? So had my bones possessed now in peace Their happie graue within the closed grounde, And greadie wormes had gnawen this pyned har Without my feeling payne: so should not now This lyuing brest remayne the ruthefull tombe, Wherein my hart yelden to death is graued: Nor driery thoughts with panges of pining griefe My dolefull minde had not afflicted thus. O my beloued sonne: O my swete childe, My deare Ferrex, my ioye, my lyues delyght. Is my beloued sonne, is my sweete childe, My deare Ferrex, my ioye, my lyues delight. Murdered with cruell death? O hatefull wretch, O heynous traitour both to heauen and earth. Thou Porrex, thou this damned dede hast wrought, Thou Porrex, thou shalt dearely bye the same. Traitour to kinne and kinde, to sire and me, To thine owne fleshe, and traitour to thy selfe. The Gods on thee in hell shall wreke their wrath, And here in earth this hand shall take reuenge,