Agamemnon (Seneca's Eighth Tragedy) · chunk 21 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 0.77 · 492 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
on stinking Stygian flood. To view the churlish mastyfe cu● of hell, it doth me good. And gaping mouthed kingdom dark of greedy Ditis' reign. The barge of filthy Phlegeton this day shall entertain, Me conquering, and conquered, and princes souls with all. You flytering shades I you beseech, and eke on the I call, O Stygian pool (whereon the gods their solemn oaths do take Unbolt a while the brazen bars of darksome limbo lake. Whereby the Phrygian folk in hell may Micean state be hold. Look up ye sellye wretched souls, the fates are backward rolled. The sqallye sisters do approach, and deal their bloody strokes, Their smouldering faggots in their hands half burnt to ashes smokes. Their visages so pale do burn, with fiery flaming eyes: A garment black their gnawed guts doth gird in morning guise. Dire dread of night begins to howl, the bones of body vast With lying long do rot corrupt in miry puddle cast. Behold, the weary aged man his burning thirst forgot, The waters dallying at his lypps to catch endeavours not: But murneth for the funeral, that shall ensue anon. The Trojan prince his royal robes triumphant putteth on. The furious rage clean overpast begins itself to slake, And flyps away, even as a Bull that deadly wound doth take On gashed neck affront the ears: come let us ease at last Her limbs, that of the sprite of god hath felt the mighty blast. Returning home again at length and crowned with Laurel bow (A sign of worthy victory) is Agamemnon now. The wite to meet her husband, doth her speedy passage ply, Returning hand in hand, and foot by foot most lovingly. AT length I do arrive again upon my native soyle● God save the o dear loved land, to thee is huge a spoil So many barbarous people yield: the flower of Asia Troy To bear thy yoke submits herself, that long did live in joy. Why doth this prophet (on the ground her sprawling body laid) Thus rele and stagger on her neck, all trembling and dismayed? Sirs, take her up, with liquor warm let her be cherished. Now peeps she up again, which drooping eyes sunk in her head: Pluck up thy sprite, here is the port wished for in misery: This day is festival. At Troy so was it wont to be. Let us to Chalters worship gy●e. At Chalters died my sire: Pray we to Ioue. To Ioue whose grace divine doth me inspire? Dost thou suppose that Troy thou seist? And Priam eke I see. Troy is not here. where Helen is there take I Troy to be. Fear not as maid to serve thy dame. Nay freedom draweth nigh. take thou no thought how thou shalt live: All cares for to defy Death gives a courage unto me. Yet say I once again There is no danger left, whereby thou mightest hurt sustain.
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)
on stynkyng Stygian flood. To vew the churlyshe mastyfe cu of hell, it doth me good. And gaping mouhed kyngdome darke of gredy Ditis raygne. The barge of fylthy Phlegethon this day shall entertayne, Me conqueryng, and conquered, and prynces soules with all. You flyteryng shades I you beseche, and eake on the I call, O Stygian poole (wheron the gods theyr solemne othes do take Unbolt a whyle the brasen bars of darksom lymbo lake. Wherby the Phrygian folke in hell may Micean state be holde. Loke vp ye sellye wretched soules, the fates ar backward roulde. The sqallye sisters do approch, and deal thier bloodye strokes, Their smultring faggots in their hāds halfe burnt to asshes smokes. Their visages so pale do burne, with fyrye flamyng eyes: A garment blacke theyr gnawed gutts doth gyrde in morning guyse. Dire dred of night begins to howle, the bones of bodye vast With lieng long do rot corrupt in myrie pudle cast. Behold, the werye aged man his burnyng thurst forgot, The waters dalyeng at his lypps to catche endeuors not: But murneth for the funerall, that shall ensue anon. The Troyan prince hys royall robes tryumphant putteth on. ¶The furious rage clean ouerpast begyns it selfe to slake, And flyps away, euen as a Bull that deadly wounde doth take On gasshed neck afront the ares: come let vs ease at last Her lymbes, that of the spryte of god hath felt the myghty blast. Returning home agayne at lengthe and cround with Lawrell bow (A sygne of worthy vyctorye) is Agamemnon now. The wyte to mete her husband, doth her spedy passage plye, Returning hand in hand, and fote by fote most louingly. AT lengthe I do aryue agayne vppon my natyue soyle God saue the o dear loued land, to thee is huge a spoyle So many barbarous people yeilde: the flowre of Asia Troy To beare thy yoke submyts her selfe, that longe did lyue in ioye. Why doth thys prophet (on the groūd her sprawling body layd) Thus rele and stagger on her neck, all tremblynge and dismaide? Sirs, take her vp, with lycour warme let her be cheryshed. Now peepes she vp agayn, wt drouping eyes sonke in her head: Pluck vp thy spryte, here is the porte wisht for in myserye: This day is festiuall. ¶At Troy so was it wont to be. ¶Let vs to Chalters worshyp gye. ¶At Chalters dyed my syer: ¶Pray we to Ioue. ¶To Ioue whose grace diuine doth me inspire? ¶Dost thou suppose that Troy yu seist? ¶And Priam eke I see. ¶Troy is not here. ¶wher Helen is there take I Troy to bee. ¶Fear not as maid to serue thy dame. ¶Nay fredome draweth nye. ¶take thou no thought how yu shalt liue: ¶All cares for to defye Death gyues a corage vnto me. ¶Yet say I once agayne There is no daunger left, wherby thou myghtest hurte sustaine.