The Brazen Age (The Age of Brass) · chunk 13 of 40
Heywood, Thomas · published 1613 · first performed or written 1611 [1610-1611] (Annals) classical legend or myth · Queen Anne's Men unassigned nearest T38 Death, parting and grief at court · 495 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T38: queen, king, death, dead, heart, life, die, lord, royal, news.
First then, we'll royally inter our uncles, And spend some tears upon their funeral rites, That done we'll in our Palace feast these Princes, With bright Atlanta, whom we'll make our Queen. Our Uncles once bestowed into the earth, Our mournings shall expire in Bridal mirth. Come to the Temple there to sacrifice For these glad tidings, since the Boar lies dead, That filled our kingdom with such awe and dread. What joy names Oeneus in this spectacle? This of a thousand the most sad and tragic, Whose murdered trunks be these? Your royal brothers, Prince Toxeus and Plexippus, Speak, how slain? Not by the Boar, but by your sons own hand. By Meleager's, how? upon what quarrel? Could the proud boy ground such a damned act. Your son to fair Atlanta gave the prize Of this days travel, which for, they withstood In mutinous arms they loss their vital bloods. Shall I revenge or mourn them. O strange fate. An object that must shorten Oeneus days, And bring these winter hairs to a sad Tomb Long ere there date; I sink beneath these sorrows Into my black and timeless monument. My sorrows turn to rage, my tears to fire, My prayers to curses, vows into revenge. Peace, peace my Queen, let's bear the God's vindiction With patience, as we did Diana's wrath: Where Gods are bent to punish, we may grieve But can ourselves nor succour, nor relieve. Come, let us do to them their latest rites, Wait on their Hearses in our mourning black; Their happy souls are mounted 'bove the spheres, We'll wash their bodies in our funeral tears. Althaea what distraction's this within thee? A sister or a mother wilt thou be? Since both I cannot, (for these Princes slain) Sister I choose, a mother's name disdain: The fatal brand in which the murderer's life Securely lies, I'll hurl into the fire And as it flames, so shall the slave expire. Mischief I'll heap on mischief, bade on ill, Wrong pay with wrongs, and slaughter these that kill. And since the Gods would all our glories thrall, I will with them have chief hand in our fall. But he's my son: oh pardon me dear brothers, Being a mother if I spare his life, Though it be fit his sin be plagued with death, And that his life lie in yond fatal brand, 'T will not come fitly from a mother's hand. Is this the hope of all my ten months' pain, Must he by th'hand of him that nursed him now be slain? Would he had perished in his cradle, when I gave him twice life: in his birth, and then When I the brand snatched from the ravenous flame, And for this double good, hast thou with shame And injury repaid me? I will now A sister be, no mother, for I vow Revenge and death; Furies, assist my hand Whilst in red flames I cast his vital brand.
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)
First then, wee'le royally interre our vnkles, And spend some teares vpon their funerall rites, That done we'le in our Palace feast these Princes, With bright Atlanta, whom wee'le make our Queene. Our Vnkles once bestow'de into the earth, Our mournings shall expire in Bridall mirth. Come to the Temple there to sacrifice For these glad tydings, since the Boare lies dead, That fil'd our kingdome with such awe and dread. What ioy names Oeneus in this spectacle? This of a thousand the most sad and tragicke, Whose murdered trunkes be these? Your royall brothers, Prince Toxeus and Plexippus, Speake, how slaine? Not by the Boare, but by your sons owne hand. By Meleagers, how? vpon what quarrell? Could the proud boy ground such a damned act. Your sonne to faire Atlanta gaue the prise Of this daies trauell, which for, they with-stood In mutinous armes they losse their vitall blouds. Shall I reuenge or mourne them. O strange fate. An obiect that must shorten Oeneus daies, And bring these winter haires to a sad Tombe Long ther da; I sinke beneath these sorrowes Into my blacke and timelesse monument. My sorrowes turne to rage, my teares to fire, My praiers to curses, vowes into reuenge. Peace, peace my Queene, let's beare the Gods vindiction With patience, as wee did Dianaes wrath: Where Gods are bent to punish, we may grieue But can our selues nor succour, nor relieue. Come, let vs do to them their latest rites, Wait on their Hearses in our mourning blacke; Their happy soules are mounted 'boue the spheares, We'le wash their bodies in our funerall teares. Althea what distraction's this within thee? A sister or a mother wilt thou bee? Since both I cannot, (for these Princes slaine) Sister I chuse, a mothers name disdaine: The fatall brand in which the murderers life Securely lies, I'le hurle into the fire And as it flames, so shall the slaue expire. Mischeife I'le heape on mischeife, bad on ill, Wrong pay with wrongs, and slaughter these that kill. And since the Gods would all our glories thrall, I will with them haue chiefe hand in our fall. But hee's my sonne: oh pardon me deere brothers, Being a mother if I spare his life, Though it bee fit his sinne be plaug'd with death, And that his life lie in yon fatall brand, 'T will not come fitly from a mothers hand. Is this the hope of all my ten months paine, Must he by th'hand of him that nurst him now be slaine? Would he had perisht in his cradle, when I gaue him twice life: in his birth, and then When I the brand snatcht from the rauenous flame, And for this double good, hast thou with shame And iniury repaide me? I will now A sister be, no mother, for I vow Reuenge and death; Furies, assist my hand Whilst in red flames I cast his vitall brand.