Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1566 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T34 Thebes and royal catastrophe: siege, sla · 519 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T34: thebes, antigone, polynices, creon, eteocles, war, theban, gods, dear, country.
Tho●, and thy babes, are like to ●egge and ●●ar●e, In Nation straunge, (o miserable life) Whyle Iason from hys promyses doe wau, And takes delight in his new wedded wife. O ground ungrate, that when the husband man Hath tilled it, to recompense his toil No corn, but weeds, and ●h●stles cendder can, To ●●ynge dies hands, that fruyte seeks of his soil. Such venom grows of pleasaut coloured flower: Lo●, princes lo, what deadly poison sup Of ba●e, erst sweet, now turned into sowe●, Medes drank out of a golden c●p. Ay me alas I am undone, for at the bridal cheer The warble note of wedding song resounded in mine ear. Yet for all this scant I myself, yet scant believe I can, That Iason would play such a prank, a most unthankful man, Both of my country, and my sire, and kingdom me to spoil, And yet forsake me wretch forlorn, to stray in foreign soil. O hath he su●h such a stony heart, that doth no more esteem, The great good turns, and benefits that I employed on him? Who knows, that I have lewdly used enchantments for his sake, The rigour rough, and stormy rage, of swelling seas to slake. The grunting fyryefoming Bulls whose smoking guts were stuff With smoltering fumes, that from their jaws, nostrils out they puffed I stopped their gnasshing munching mouths I quenched their burning breath, And vapours hot of stewing paunch, that else had wrought his death. Or feeds he thus his fancy fond, to think my skill of charm Abated is, and that I have no power to do him harm? Bestract of wits, which wavering mind perplexed on every part, I tossed, and turmoiled am, with way ward crazy heart. Now this, now that, and neither now, but now another way, By divers means I toil, that so my wrong revenge I may. I would the wreatche a brother had: but what? he hath a wife. Go cut her throat, with ghastly wounds bereave her of her life. On her i'll work my deadly spite, her, her alone I crave, To quit such bitter sousing storms, as I sustained have. If any grand notoryus guilt in all Pelasgan land Be put in practise yet unknown unto thy harming hand, Thereof to get experience the time doth now begin: Thy former feats do bid thee tak● good hopes to thrive herein: Let all thy guilts with thronging thick assemble thee to aid, The golden Fleece (the chief novel) of Colchis I'll betrayed. My tender brother eke, that with my sire did me pursue, Whom with his secret parts cut of I wicked virgin slew, Whose shreaded & dismembered corpse, with sword in gobbets hewed, (A woeful corpse tooth father's heart) on Pontus' ground I strewed. How hoary he added Pelias his withered age to shift To green years, for longer life, his daughters by my drift His members all and mangled flesh with liquor scalding hot Ysodden, and parboiled have, in seething brazen pot. How oft in heinous blood have these my cruel hands been died?
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)
Tho, and thy babes, are lyke to egge and are, In Nacion strange, (o miserable lyfe) Whyle Iason from hys promyses doe wau, And takes delyght in hys new wedded wyfe. O grounde vngrate, that when the husband man Hath tylled it, to recompence hys toyle No corne, but weedes, and hstles cendder can, To ynge dys handes, that truyte sekes of his soyle. Such venome growes of pleasaut colourd flower: Lo, prynces loe, what deadly poyson sup Of bae, erst sweete, now turned into sowe, Mede dranc out of a goulden cp. AYe me alas I am vndone, for at the brydall cheare The warble note of weddinge songe resoūded in myne eare. Yet for all thys scant I my selfe, yet scant beleue I can, That Iason wolde play such a prancke, amoste vnthanckfull man, Both of my countrey, and my syre, and kyngdome me to spoyle, And yet forsake me wretche forlorne, to straye in forreyn soyle. O hath he suh such a stonye harte, that dothe no more esteme, The great good turnes, and benefits that I imployde on hym? Who knowes, that I haue lewdly vsed enchauntmentes for his sake, The rigour roughe, and stormy rage, of swellyng seas to slake. The gruntyng fyryefomyng Bulles whose smokyng guttes were stufte With smoltering fumes, y• from theyr iawes, & nostrels out they puft I stopt their gnasshing moūching mouthes I quēcht their burning breth, And vapors hott of stewyng paunche, that els had wrought hys death. Or fedes he thus hys fansye fonde, to thynke my skyll of charme Abated is, and that I haue no power to doe hym harme? Bestract of wittes, wt wauering mind perplext on euery parte, I tossed, and turmoyled am, wyth way warde crasy harte. Now this, now that, and neither now, but now another waye, By dyuers meanes I toyle, that so my wronge reuenge I maye. I wolde the wreatche a brother had: but what? he hath a wyfe. Go cut her throte, with gastly woūdes bereue her of her lyfe. On her ile worke my deadly spyte, her, her alone I craue, To quit such bitter sowsyng stormes, as I susteyned haue. If any graund notoryus gylt in all Pelasga lande Be put in practyse yet vnknowen vnto thy harmyng hande, Therof to get experience the tyme doth now begyn: Thy former feates doe byd thee tak good hope to thryue herein: Let al thy gyltes with thronging thic assemble thee to ayde, The golden Fleece (the cheefe nouel) of Colchis Ile betrayde. My tender brother eke, that wyth my sier dyd me pursue, Whom wyth hys secrete partes cut of I wycked virgin slewe, Whose shreaded & dismembred corps, wyth swerd in gobbits hewd, (A wofull coarse toth fathers harte) on Pontus ground I strewd. How horye he added Plias hys wythred age to shyfte To grener yeares, for longer lyfe, hys doughters by my dryfte Hys members all and mangled flesh wyth lycour scaldyng hot Ysodden, and perboyled haue, in sethynge brasen pot. How ofte in haynous blood haue these my cruell handes ben dyed?