Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1566 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 515 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T36: hell, earth, gods, death, ghosts, blood, bloody, heaven, night, ghost.
O Gods whose grace doth guide their gob●les that joy in wedlock pure, O Iuno thou Lucina height, on whom the chary cure Allotted is of those, that groan in painful childbed handes, O Pallas by whose heavenly art Sir Typhis cunning hands Have learned to bridle with his helm his newly framed boat, Wherewith the force of fight floods he breaking rides a float. O God whose forked Mace doth storms in rigour rough appears, And cause the ruffling surges couch amid the ramping Seas: O Titan who upon the swift and wherlinge Hemisphere D●uides the cheerful day and night by equal turns t'appear. O threefold shapen Hecate that sendest forth thy light, Unto thy silent sacrifice that offered is by night, By whom my Iason swore to me o heavenly powers all, And ye on whom Medea ●aye with safer conscience call, O Dungeon darke, most dreadful den of everlasting night, O damned gohstes: o kingdom set against the gods aright: O Lord of sad and lowering lakes, o Lady dire of Hell, (Whom though that Pluto stolen biforce yet did his ●roth excel The fickle faith of Iasons love, that he to me doth bear,) With cursed throat I conjure you, o grys●ye gohstes appear. Come out, come out, ye hellish hags, revenge this deed so dire, Bring in your scratting paws a burning brand of deadly fire. Rise up ye hiddivos devilish fiends, as dreadful as ye wear, When unto me in wedlock state ye did sometime appear. Work ye, work ye, the dole full death of this new wedded wife. And martyr ye this father in law: deprive of breath and life King Creon's ruthful family: in plunge of passing pain Torment ye me, that on my spouse do wish this woe to rain: Preserve my Iasons life, but yet let him be baited out A mitching, roguing, runagate, in foreign towns about. To pass from door to door, with care to beg his needy bread. Not knowing in what harbouring place to couch his cursed head: A banished wretch, dysdaynd of all, and still in fear of life, Then let him wish ten thousand times for me again his wife: This famous gest whom every man will entertain and have, Let him be driven at strangers gates the table crumbs to crave. And that my bitter bannynges may with mischief most abound, God grant in gulf of like distress his children may be drowned, To sink in sorrows storms, that do there mother overflow: Now, now, I have, I have the full revenge of all my woe. I have dispatched: my piteous plaint and words in vain I lose: What shall not I with violence get up against my foes? And wring out of their wrested hands the wedding torch so bright? Shall I not force the firmament to lose his shrinking light? What doth my grandsires Phoebus' face this heavy hap behold? And standing gazing at this gear yet westward is he rolled, On glistering chariot hoisted high, and keeps his beaten race, Amid the crystal coloured sky,
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: T26 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
O Gods whose grace doth guide their gobles that ioy in wedlocke pure, O Iuno thou Lucina hyght, on whom the chary cure Alotted is of those, that grone in paynfull chyldbed andes, O Pallas by whose heauenly arte Sir Typhis conning handes Haue learnde to bridle with hys helme hys newly framed boate, Wherwith the force of fighting fluddes he brekynge rydes a flote. O God whose forked Mace dothe stormes in rygour rough appeas, And cause the rufflyng surges couche amid the rampinge Seas: O Titan who vpon the swifte and wherlinge Hemisphaer Duides the chearefull day and nyght by egall turnes tappere. O threfolde shapen Hecte that sendest furthe thy lyght, Unto thy sylent Sacryfyse that offered is by nyght, By whom my Iason sware to me o heauenly powers all, And ye on whom Medea aye with safer conscience call, O Dungeon dark, moste dredfull den of euerlastyng nyghte, O dampned gohstes: o kyngdome set agaynste the gods aryghte: O Lord of sad and lowrynge lakes, o Ladye dire of Hell, (Whom though that Pluto stale biforce yet did his roth excell The ficle fayth of Iasons loue, that he to me dothe beare,) With cursed throte I coniure you, o grysye gohstes appeare. Come out, come out, ye hellish hagges, reuenge this deede so dire, Bryng in your scratting pawes a burnyng brande of deadly fyre. Rise vp ye hiddiuos diuelish feendes, as dreadfull as ye weare, When vnto me in wedlocke state ye dyd sometyme appeare. Worke ye, worke ye, the dole full death of thys new wedded wyfe. And martyr ye this father in lawe: depryue of breath and lyfe Kynge Creons ruthfull famylie: in plunge of passyng payne Torment ye me, that on my spouse do wyshe thys woe to reyne: Preserue my Iasons lyfe, but yet let hym be bayted oute A mychyng, rogyng, runagate, in forren townes aboute. To passe from dore to dore, wyth care to begge hys nedy bread. Not knowing in what harbryng place to couche hys curssed head: A banysht wretche, dysdaynd of all, and styll in feare of lyfe, Then let him wish ten thousand times for me agayne hys wyfe: Thys famous gest whom euery man wyll entertayne and haue, Let hym be dryuē at straungers gates the table crūmes to craue. And that my bytter bannynges may wyth myschefe moste abounde, God graunt in gulphe of lyke dystresse hys chyldren may be drounde, To synke in sorowes stormes, that do there mother ouerflowe: Now, now, I haue, I haue the full reuenge of all my woe. I haue dispatcht: my pyteous playnte and wordes in vayne I lose: What shall not I wyth vyolence get vp agaynste my foes? And wryng out of theyr wrested hādes the weddyng torche so bryght? Shall I not force the firmament to lose his shrynkyng lyght? What dothe my grandsirs Phaebus face this heuie hap beholde? And standynge gasyng at thys geare yet westwarde is he rolde, On glystrynge chariot hoysted hyghe, and kepes his beaten race, Amid the christall colourde skye,