Agamemnon (Seneca's Eighth Tragedy) · chunk 21 of 28
Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1581 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy T7 The Trojan war: conflict and its afterma typicality 0.83 · 499 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T7: hector, troy, achilles, greeks, aeneas, priam, ulysses, troilus, trojan, trojans.
I do delight, to sail with them on stinking Sigean flood. To view the churlish mastiff cur of hell, it doth me good. And gaping mouthed Kingdom dark of greedy Ditis' reign. The Barge of filthy Phlegethon this day shall entertain, Me conquering, and conquered, and princes souls with all. You flittering shades I you beseech, and cake on thee I call, O Stygian pool (whereon the Gods their solemn oaths do take Unbolt a while the Brasne bars of darksome Lymoo lake. Whereby the Phrygian folk in hell may Mycean state behold. Look up ye silly wretched souls, the fates are backward rolled. The sqally sisters do approach, and deal their bloody strokes, Their smouldering faggots in their hands half brunt to ashes smokes. Their visages so pale do burn, with fiery flaming eyes: A garment black their gnawed guts doth gird in mourning guise. Dire dread of night begins to howl, the bones of body baste With lying long do rot corrupt in miry puddle cast. Behold, the weary aged man his burning thirst forgot, The waters dallying at his lips to catch endeavours not: But mourneth 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 slips away, even as a Bull that deadly wound doth take On gashed neck affront the aares: 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 Wife 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 soil: God save thee O dear loved Land, to thee so 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 reel 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, with 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 Th'altars worship give. At Th'altars died my sire: A, Pray we to Ioue. To love whose grace divine doth me inspire? Dost thou suppose that Troy thou seest? 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.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 959–1016 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 21 of 28 in this edition
Length
499 words · 673 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T7 — The Trojan war: conflict and its aftermathcross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.830 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
Other seeds
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)
I doe delight, to ſayle with them on ſtinking Siygian flood. To vew the churliſhe maſtife cur of hell, it doth mee good. And gaping mouthed Kingdome darke of greedy Ditis raygne. The Barge of filthy Phlegethon this day ſhall entertayne, Mee conquering, and conquered, and Prynces ſoules with all. You flitering ſhades I you beſeeche, and cake on thee I call, O Stygian poole (whereon the Gods theyr ſolemne othes doe take Vnbolt a whyle the Braſne bars of darkſome Lymoo lake. Whereby the Phrygian folke in hell may Mican ſtate beholde. Looke vp yee ſilly wretched ſoules, the fates are backward roulde. The ſqally ſiſters doe approch, and deale their bloudy ſtrokes, Their ſmultring taggots in their handes halfe bruie to aſhes ſmokes. Their vyſages ſo pale doe burne, with fyry flaming eyes: A garment blacke theyr gawed guts doth gyrde in mourning gyſe. Dire dread of night begins to howle, the bones of body baſt With lying long doe rot corrupt in miry pudle caſt. Beholde, the wery aged man his burning thyrſt forgot▪ The waters dalying at his lippes to catch endeuors not: But mourneth for the funerall, that ſhall enſue anen. The Troyan Prynce his royall robes tryumphant putteth on. The furious rage cleane ouerpaſt begins it ſelfe to ſlake. And ſlyps away, euen as a Bull that deadly wounde doth take On gaſſhed neck afront the aares: come let vs eaſe at laſt Her lymbes, that of the ſpryte of God hath felt the mighty blaſt. Returning home agayne at length and crounde with Lawrell bow (A ſigne of worthy victory) is Agamemnon now. The Wyfe to meete her Huſband, doth her ſpeedy paſſage ply, Returning hand in hand, and foote by foote moſt louingly. AT length I doe arryue agayne vppon my natiue ſoyle: God ſaue thee O deare loued Lande, to thee ſo huge a ſpoyle So many barbarous people yeelde: the flowre of Aſia. Troy: To beare thy yoake ſubmits her ſelfe, that longe did liue in ioy. Why doth this Prophet (on the grounde her ſprawling body layde) Thus reele and ſtagger on her necke, all trembling and diſmayde? Sirs, take her vp, with Lycour warme let her bee cheariſhed. Now peepes ſhe vp agayne, with drouping eyes ſonke in her head: Plucke vp thy ſpryte, heere is the porte wiſht for in miſery: This day is feſtiuall. At Troy ſo was it wont to bee. Let vs to Th'alters worſhip gyue. At Th'alters died my ſire: A, Pray wee to Ioue. To loue whoſe grace diuine doth me inſpire? Doſt thou ſuppoſe that Troy thou ſeeſt? And Priam eke I ſee. Troy is not heere. where Helen is there take I Troy to bee, Feare not as maide to ſerue thy dame. Nay fredome draweth ny. Take thou no thought how thou ſhalt Iue. All cares for to defy, Death giues a courage vnto mee. Yet ſay I once agayne There is no daunger left, whereby thou mighteſt hurt ſuſtayne.