Agamemnon (Seneca's Eighth Tragedy) · chunk 20 of 28
Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1581 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy T24 Apollo, Phoebus and the Muses typicality 0.75 · 492 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T24: apollo, phoebus, midas, muses, ears, play, hedone, gods, siren, time.
The sacred Phoebus Prophet is with sudden silence hushed: A quaking trembling shivering fear throughout her Isms hath rushed: Her Face as pale as Ashes is, her Fillets stand upright, The soft and gentle goldilocks start up of her affright. Her panting breathing breast stuffed up within doth grunt and groan. Her glaring bright and steaming Eyes are hither and thither thrown. Now glancing up and down they roll: now standing stiff they stare. She stretcheth up her head more straight then commonly she bore, bolt up she goes, her wrestling jaws that fast together cling, She doth attempt by divers means, on sunder how to wring. Her mumbling words in gambling mouth shut up she doth assuage, As Menas mad that Bacchus aares doth serve in furious rage. How doth it hap (O sacred tops of high Parnassus hill) That me berapt of sense, with pricks of fury fresh ye fiill? Why do you me with ghost inspire, that am beside my wits? O Phoebus none of thine I am, release me from the fits: Infixed in my burning breasts the flames extinguish out, Who forceth me with fury fell to gad and trot about? Or for whose sake inspired with sprite mad mumbling make must I? Why play I now the Prophet cold, sith Troy in dust doth lie? The day doth shrink for dread of war, the night doth dim mine eyes. With mantel black of darkness deep clean covered is the skies: But lo two shining Suns at once in heaven appeareth bright, Two Grecian houses muster do their armies twain to fight. Among the mighty goddesses in Ida woods I see, The fatal shepherd in his throne as umpire placed to be: I do advise you to beware, beware (I say) of kings, (A kindred in whose cankered hearts old privy grudges springs) That country clown Aegisthus he this stock shall overthrow, What doth this foolish desperate dame her naked weapons show? Whose crown intendeth she to crack in weed of Lacon land, With Hatchet (by the Amazons invented first) in hand? What face of mighty majesty be witched hath mine eyes? The conqueror of savage beasts Marmarick Lion lies, Whose noble neck is worried with currish fang and tooth The curlish snaps of eager Lioness abide he doth. Alack ye ghosts of all my friends why should ye say that I, Among the rest am only safe, from perils far to lie? Fain father follow thee I would, Troy being laid in dust. O brother terror of the Greeks, O Trojans aid and trust. Our ancient pomp I do not see, nor yet thy warmed hands, (That fierce on Greekish flaming fleet did fling the fiery brands) But mangled members, scorched corpse, and sake thy valiant arms, Hard pinned and bound in bands sustaining grievous harms: O Troilus, a match unfit encountering with Achill (That mighty man of arms) to soon come unto thee I will.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 913–958 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 20 of 28 in this edition
Length
492 words · 665 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T24 — Apollo, Phoebus and the Musescross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.754 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T27 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
The ſacred Phoebus Prophet is with ſodayne ſilence huſht: A quaking trembling ſhiuering feare throughout her Isms hath ruſht: Her Face as pale as Aſhes is, her Fillits ſtande vpryght, The ſoft and gentle goldilockes ſtarte vp of her affright. Her panting breathing breaſt ſtuft vp within doth grunt and grone. Her glaring bryghe and ſteaming Eyes are hether and thyther throwne. Now glauncing vp and downe they roll: now ſtanding ſtiffe they ſtare. She ſtretcheth vp her head more ſtreyght then commonly ſhe bare, Boult vp ſhe goes, her wraſtling Iawes that faſt together clinge, She doth attempt by diuers meanes, on ſunder how to wringe. Her mumbling words in gabling mouth ſhut vp ſhe doth aſſwage, As Menas mad that Bacchus aares doth ſerue in furious rage. How doth it hap (O ſacred tops of high Parnaſſus hill) That me berapt of ſence, with prickes of fury freſh yee fiill? Why doe you me with ghoſt inſpyre, that am beſyde my wits? O Phoebus none of thyne I am, releaſſe me from the ſits: Infixed in my burning breaſtes the flames extinguiſh out, Who forceth me with fury fell to gad and trot about? Or for whoſe ſake inſpyrde with ſpryte mad mumbling make muſt I? Why play I now the Prophet colde, ſith Troy in duſt doth ly? The day doth ſhrynke for dread of warre, the night doth dim mine eyes. With mantell blacke of darkneſſe deepe cleane couerd is the ſkyes: But loe two ſhining Sunnes at once in heauen appeareth bryght, Two Grecian houſes muſter doe their armies twayne to fight. Amonge the mighty Goddeſis in Ida woodes I ſee, The fatall ſheepherd in his throne as vmpier plaſt to bee: I doe aduiſe you to beware, beware (I ſay) of kynges, (A kindred in whoſe cancred heartes olde priuy grudges ſpringes) That countrey clowne Aegiſthus he this ſtocke ſhall overthrowe, What doth this fooliſh deſpret dame her naked weapons ſhowe? Whoſe crowne entendeth ſhee to cracke in weede of Lacon lande, With Hatchet (by the Amazons inuented firſt) in hand? What face of mighty maieſty be witched hath myne eyes? The conquerour of ſaluage beaſtes Marmarick Lyon lyes, Whoſe noble necke is wurried with curriſh fange and tooth The curliſh ſnaps of eger Lyoneſle abyde hee dooth. Alacke yee ghoſtes of all my friendes why ſhould yee ſay that I, Among the reſt am onely ſafe, from perils farre to ly? Fayne father follow thee I would, Troy being layde in duſt. O brother terrour of the Greekes, O Troyans ayde and truſt. Our auncient pomp I doe not ſee, nor yet thy warmed handes, (That fearce on Greekiſh flaming fleete did fling the fyry brandes) But mangled members, ſchorched corps, and ſake thy valiaunt armes, Hard pimond and bounde in bands ſuſtayning greeuous harmes: O Troyolus, a match vnfit encountering with Achill (That myghty man of armes) to ſoone come vnto thee I will.