Norton, Thomas / Sackville, Thomas · published 1570 · first performed or written 1562 [Jan 18] (Annals) tragedy · before the Court T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.81 · 507 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 cruel wight, should any cause prevail To make thee 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 thee be showed. Departed therefore our sight Accursed child. What cruel destiny, What froward fate hath sorted us this chance, That even in those where we should comfort found, Where our delight now in our aged days Sold rest and be, even there our only grief And deepest sorrows to abridge our life, Most pining cares and deadly thoughts do grow? Your grace should now in these grave years of yours Have found ere this the price of mortal joys, How short they be, how fading here 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 own Their end at last, neither should natures 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 sage and grave advise Of patient spirit to others wrapped in woe, And can in speech both rule and conquer kind, Who if by proof they might feel nature's 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? O 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 banished thence, if pity there May have no place, if there no gentle heart Do live and devil, where should we seek it then? 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 Can 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 becomen 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 stabbed in with knife is rest of life. O Eubulus, o draw this sword of ours, And pierce this heart with speed. O hateful light, O loathsome life, 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.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1191–1252 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 20 of 29 in this edition
Length
507 words · 639 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.807 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
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, should any cause preuaile To make thee staine thy hands with brothers bloud: But what of thee we will resolue to doe, Shall yet remaine vnknowen: Thou in the meane Shalt from our royall presence banisht be, Untill our princely pleasure furder shall To thee be shewed. Depart therefore our sight Accursed childe. What cruell desrenie, What froward fate hath sorted vs this chaunce, That euen in those where we should comfort find, Where our delight now in our aged dayes Sould rest and be, euen there our onely griefe And depest sorrowes to abridge our life, Most pyning cares and deadly thoughts do grow? Your grace should now in these graue yeres of yours Haue found ere this y• price of mortall ioyes, How short they be, how fading here in earth, How full of chaunge, how brittle our estate, Of nothing sure, saue onely of the death, To whom both man and all the world doth owe Their end at last, neither should natures power In other sort against your hart preuaile, Than as the naked hand whose stroke assayes The armed brest where force doth light in vaine. Many can yelde right sage and graue aduise Of pacient sprite to others wrapped in woe, And can in speche both rule and conquere kinde, Who if by proofe they might feele natures force, Would shew them selues men as they 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 ruth? or where is pitie now? Whether is gentle hart and mercy fled? Are they exiled out of our stony brestes, Neuer to make returne? is all the world Drowned in bloud, and soncke in crueltie? If not in women mercy may be found, If not (alas) within the mothers brest, To her owne childe, to her owne fleshe and bloud, If ruthe be banished thence, if pitie there May haue no place, if there no gentle hart Do liue and dwell, where should we seeke it then? Madame (alas) what meanes your woful tale? O fillie woman I, why to this houre Haue kinde and fortune thus deferred my breath, That I should liue to see this dolefull day? Will euer wight beleue that such hard hart Could rest within the cruell mothers brest, With her owne hand to slay her onely sonne? But out (alas) these eyes behelde the same, They saw the driery sight, and are becomē Most ruthfull recordes of the bloudy fact. Porrex (alas) is by his mother slaine, And with her hand, a wofull thing to tell, While slumbring on his carefull bed he restes His hart stabde in with knife is rest of life. O Eubulus, oh draw this sword of ours, And pearce this hart with speed. O hatefull light, O lothsome life, O sweete and welcome death. Deare Eubulus worke this we thee besech. Pacient your grace, perhappes he liueth yet. With wound receaued, but not of certaine death.