Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1566 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T4 Love-longing and the lover's complaint · 523 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T4: love, heart, sweet, loves, fair, phillis, eyes, beauty, amyntas, lovers.
WHo hath not wist that windy words be ●ain●, And that in talk of trust is not the ground, Here in a mirror may he see it plain, Medea so by ●ro●fe the same hath found. Who being blind by blinded Venus' boy, Her bleared eyes could not behold her bliss: Nor spy the present poison of her ioy●, While in the grosse the Serpent lurked is. The shaft that flew from Cupid's golden bow, With feathers so hath dy●d her dazzled eyes, That can not see to shun the way of woe: The rankling head in dented ha●te that lies, So dulls the same, that can not understand The cause that brought false Iason out of Greec●● To come unto her father's fertile land, Is not her love, but love of golden Fleece. Yet was his speech so pleasant and so mild, His tongue so field, his promises so fair, Sweet was the fowler's song that hath beguiled The silly bird, brought to the limed snare. faith, in his face, trust shined in his eyes, The blushing brow plain mining seemed to show, In double ha●te black treason hidden lies, Dissembling thoughts that weave the web of woe. The honeyed lips, the tongue in sugar depte Do● sweet the poison rank within the breast, In subtle show of painted sheath is kept, The rusty knife of treason deemed least, Life seems the bait to sight that lieth brim, Death is the hook that underlyes the same, The candle blaze delights with burning trim, The Fly, till ●●e be burned in the flame, Who in such shows least demyd any ills. The hungry fish fears not the bait to Brook, Till up the line do pluck him by the gylles, And fast in throat he feels the deadly hook. Woe Iason, woe to thee most wretched man, Or rather wretch Medea woe to thee, Woe to the one that thus dyssemble can, Woe to the other that trained so might be. Thoughst thou Medea his eyes to be the glass Wherein thou might the face of thoughts behold, That in his breast with words so covered was, As cankered brass with gloss of yellow gold? Did thou suppose that nature (more than kind) Had placed his heart his ly●nge lips between, His looks to be the mirror of his mind? faith in fair face hath ●●ldome yet been seen. Who lyst●eth to the flattering Mermaids note, Must needs commit his tired eyes to sleep, Yielding to her the making of his boat, That means unware to drown him in the deep. What booteth the● Medea to betray The golden Fleece, to fawning Iasons hand, From Dragon's teeth him safely to convey, And fiery Bulls the warders of the land? Why for his sake from father hast thou fled, And thrust thyself out from thy native soil? Thy brother's blood what ayded thee to shed, With Iason thus to travel and to ●oyle? Behold the meed of this thy good departe, The recompense that he to thee doth gy●e. For pleasure, pain, for joy, most eager smart, With clogging cares in banishment to ly●e.
seed 43: unassigned · seed 44: unassigned — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
WHo hath not wist that windie wordes be ain, Ad that in talke of truste is not the gounde, Here in a mirrour may he see it playne, Medea so by rofe the same hath founde. Who beynge blynde by blynded Venus boye, Her bleared eyes could not beholde her blisse: Nor spye the present poysen of her ioy, Whyle in the grsse the Serpent lurked is. The shafte that flew from Cupids golden bowe, With fethers so hath dyd her daseld eyes, That can not see to shun the waye of woe: The rancklyng head in dentd hate that lyes, So dulles the same, that can not vnderstande The cause that brought false Iason out of Greec To come vnto her fathers fertill land, Is not her loue, but loue of golden Fleece. Yet was hys speache so pleasant and so milde, Hys tongue so fylde, hys promyses so fayre, Sweete was the fowlers songe that hath beguylde The selye byrde, brought to the lymed snare. Fayth, in hys face, trust shyed in hys eyes, The blusshyng brow playne mnynge semed to showe, In double hate black treason hydden lyes, Dissembling thoughtes that weaue the webbe of woe. The honyed lyppes, the tongue in suger depte Do sweete the poyson rancke within the brest, In subtle shew of paynted sheath is kept, The rustye knyfe of treason demed least, Lyfe seemes the bayte to syght that lyeth brym, Death is the hooke that vnderlyes the same, The candell blase delyghtes wyth burnyng trym, The Flye, tyll e be burned in the flame, Who in such shewes least demd any illes. The hungrye fysshe feares not the bayte to Brooke, Tyll vp the lyne doe pluck hym by the gylles, And fast in throte hee feles the deadly hooke. Woe Iason, woe to thee most wretched man, Or rather wretche Medea woe to thee, Woe to the one that thus dyssemle can, Woe to the other that trayned so myght be. Thoughst thou Medea hys eyes to be the glasse Whein thou myghte the face of thoughtes beholde, That in hys brest with wordes so couered was, As cancred brasse wyth glosse of yelow golde? Dyd thou suppose that nature (more then kinde) Had placed hys harte hys lynge lyppes betweene, Hys lookes to be the mirrour of hys mynde? Fayth in fayre face hath ldome yet ben seene. Who lysteth to the flateryng Maremaides note, Must nedes commyt hys tyred eyes to slepe, Yelding to her the aking of hys boate, That meanes vnware to drowne hym in the depe. What boteth the Medea to betraye The golden Fleece, to fawnyng Iasons hande, From Dragons teethe hym safely to conuaye, And fyrye Bulles the warders of the lande? Why for hys sake from father hast thou fled, And thrust thy selfe out from thy natyue soyle? Thy brothers blood what ayd thee to shed, Wyth Iason thus to trauell and to oyle? Beholde the meede of thys thy good deate, The recompense that he to thee doth gye. For pleasure, payne, for ioye, most eger smarte, With cloggyng caes in banyshment to lye.