Agamemnon (Seneca's Eighth Tragedy) · chunk 7 of 28
Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1566 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma typicality 0.85 · 523 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
Queen, bridle thine affections, and wisely rule ●●y rage, Thy swelling mood now myt●igate, thy chollure eke assuage. Way well the weighty enterprise that thou dost take in hand, Triumphant victor be returns of mighty Asia land Avenging Europa's injury, with him he brings away The spoils of sacked Pargamie, a huge and mighty pray. In bondage eke he leads the folk of long assaulted Troye, Yet darest thou by policy attempt him to annoy? Whom with the dint of glittering sword Achilles durst not harm, Although his rash and desperate dicke The froward knight did armes Nor Ajax yet more hardy man up yielding vital breath, Whom frantic jury fell enforced to wound himself to death: Nor Hector, he, whose only life procuerd the Greeks delay, And long in war for victory enforced them to stay Nor Paris shaft, whose cunning hand with shot so sure did aim: Nor mighty Memnon swart and black, had power to hurt the same: Nor Xanthus flood, where to and fro dead ca●kasis did swim, With armour hewed and there with all some maimed broken lime: Nor Simois, that purple wawmes with slaughter died doth steer. Nor Cygnus Lylly white, the sonne of fenny god so dear: Nor yet the mu●teryng Thracian host: nor warlike Re●sus king: Nor Amazons, who to the wars did painted Quivers bring, And bore their har●hets in their hands, with target, and with sheylde, Yet had no power with ghastly wound to foil him in the feylde. Sith he such scourynges hath escaped, and plunge of perils paste, Intendest thou to murder him, returning home at last? And sacred altars to profane with slaughter so v●●ure? Shall Grece th'advenger, let this wrong long unrevengd endure? The gzym and fierce courageous horse, the battles shoures and cries, The swelling seas which brused barks do dread, when storms arise, Behold the fields with streams of blood overflown and deeply drownd, And all the Chivalry of Troy in servile bondage bound, Which Greeks have writ in registers. thy stubborn stomach bind, Subdue thy bonde affections, and pacify thy mind. THe cursed time that evermore my mind did most detest, The days that I abhorred have and hated in my breast, Are come, are come, that mine estate will bring to utter wrack: Alas my heart, why dost thou fail, and fainting fliest back? What dost thou mean at first assault from armour thus to fly? Trust this, the cruel gods intends thy doleful destiny, To wrap thee in with perils round, and catch thee in a band: endeavour drudge with all thy power their plagues for to withstand: With stomach stout rebellious, to fire and sword appeal. It is no plague, if such a death thy native destiny's deal. (O partners of my perils all, begot of Leda thou) Direct thy doings after mine, and unto thee I vow, This drosel, fluggysh ringleader, this stout strong har●ed ●yre, Shall pay the so much blood again as shed he hath in fire. How haps it that his trembling cheeks to be so pale and white, Lyenge aghast, as in a trance, with fainting face upright?
seed 43: T12 · seed 44: T11 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
¶Queene, brydle thyne affections, and wyselye rule y rage, Thy swellyng moode now mytigate, thy chollure eke asswage. Way well the wayghtye enterpryse that thou doest take in hand, Tryumphant victor be retournes of myghty Asia lande Auengyng Europs iniurye, with him he bryngs awaye The spoyles of sacked Pargamie, a huge and myghtie praye. In bondage eake he leades the foalke of long assaulted Troy, Yet darest thou by pollecye attempt him to annoye? Whom wt the dynt of glittryng swerd Achilles durst not harme, Although his rash and desperate dick The froward knyght did arme Nor Aiax yet more hardye man vp yeldyng vitall breth, Whom frantycke iurye fell enforste to wound him selfe to death: Nor Hector, he, whose onlye lyfe procuerd the Grekes delay, And long in war for victorye enforced them to staye Nor Paris shaft, whose connyng hand with shot so sure did ayme: Nor myghtye Memnon swart and black, had power to hurt the same: Nor Xanhus flood, wher to and froe dead cakasis did swyme, With armour hewd and ther with all some maymed broken lyme: Nor Simois, that purple wawmes with slaughter died doth steare. Nor Cygnus Lylly whyght, the sonn of fenny god so deare: Nor yet the muteryng Thracian host: nor warlyke Resus kynge: Nor Amazons, who to the wars did painted Quiuers brynge, And bare their harhets in their hands, with target, and wyth sheylde, Yet had no powre with gastly wound to foyle hym in the feylde. Syth he such scourynges hath escapte, and plunge of peryls paste, Entendest thou to murther hym, returning home at laste? And sacred alters to prophane with slaughter so vure? Shall Grece thaduenger, let this wroug longe vnreuengd endure? The gym and fearce coragious horse, the battails shoues and cries, The swelling seas which brusd barks do dread, when stormes aryse, Behold the feildes wt streames of blood ouerflowne and depely drod, And all the Cheualrie of Troy in seruile bondage bounde, Which Grekes haue writ in registers. thy stubburne stomacke binde, Subdue thy onde affections, and pacyfie thy mynd. THe curssed tyme that euermore my mynd dyd most detest, The dais that I abhorred haue and hated in my brest, Are come, are come, that myne estate wyll brynge to vtter wracke: Alas my harte, why doest thou fayle, and fayntyng flyest backe? What doest thou meane at fyrst assalt from armour thus to flye? Trust thys, the cruell gods intend thy dolfull destinie, To wrap thee in wyth peryls round, and catche thee in a bande: Endeuer drudge with all thy powre theyr plagues for to wythstand: Wyth stomake stoute rebellious, to fyre and swerd appeal. ¶It is no plague, if such a death thy natyue destnies deal. ¶(O partners of my peryls all, begot of Leda thou) Direct thy doinges ater myne, and vnto thee I vowe, This drosell, fluggysh ryngleader, thys stoute stronge hared yre, Shall pay the so much blod agayne as shed he hath in fyre. How haps it that hys trēbling cheekes to be so pale and whyght, Lyenge agast, as in a traunce, wyth fayntyng face vpryght?