Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1566 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T21 Cupid, Venus and the nymphs · 523 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T21: cupid, venus, love, ceres, diana, fair, nymphs, goddess, bow, damon.
And never any guilt as yet by wrath inflamed I tried. But now the perilous poisoning wound of Cupid's piercing dart Doth boil and rage's within my breast, it rankles at my heart. But how could Iason it redress, whom fortunes froward will Hath yeild unto another's hand, at lust to save or spill? O rage of rusty cankered mind this slanderous talk amend, If fortunes grace will grant it thus, let him unto his end Live still my Iason as he was, but if not Iason mine, Yet caitiff suffer Iason live, though Iason none of thine: Who being mindful still of us some favour let him show, For these good turns that our good will could erst on him bestow: King Creon is in all the fault, and only worthy blame, Who puffed up with sceptre proud, unable for to frame His tickle mind to modesty, made breach twixt us again, Whom Hymen's bands, and link of love had made but one of twain, By whom eke from her ●ender brats the mother (wreatche) is drawn, He breaks the vow, that gauged is with such a precious pawn. Seek after such a vyllaynes' blood, in daunting pangs of smart Let him alone be surely doused, such is his due desert, A dungell heaped of Cinders burned his Palace make I shall, that Malea where in winding strightes, the lingering ships do crawl, Shall gaze on smouldering turrets tops turmoiled in crackling flame. For godsake madame I you pray your tongue to silence frame. Eke hide your privy languyshing and grief in secret vain: Who with a modest mind abides the spurs of pricking pain, And suffereth sorrows patiently, may it repay again. Who bears a privy grudge in breast, and keeps his malice close, When least suspection is thereof may most annoy his foes. He loseth opportunity who vengeance doth require, That shows by open sparks the flame the heat of kindled fire. Small is the gripe of grief that can to reason's lore obey, And sneaking down with steling steps can stylie slip away. But they that thoroughly soused are with showers of greater pain, Can not digest such corseys sharp, but cast it up again: Fain would I give them trouncing girds. Good daughter dear assuage Thunbrydled sway, and boiling heat of this thy giddy rage: Scant mayst thou purchase quietness although thou hold thy tongue. The valiant heart dame Fortune yet durst never harm with wrong But dreading dastards down she drives. If any courage dure, And harboured be in noble breast, now put the same in ure. The show of sturdy valiant heart at any time doth shine. No hope doth in adversity the way to scape assign. He that ha●h none affiance lefts, nor any hope at all, Yet let him not mistrust the luck of aught that may befall. Thy Country clean hath cast thee of to let thee sink or swim, As for thy husband Iason he, there is no trust in him: Of all the wealth, and worldly muck wherewith thou did abound: No portion remains at all, whereby some help is found.
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)
And neuer any gylte as yet by wrath inflamde I tryed. But now the parlous poysnyng woūd of Cupids percing darte Doth boyle and rage wythin my brest, it rancles at my harte. But how could Iasn it redresse, whom fortunes froward wyll Hath yeld vnto anothers hand, at luste to saue or spyll? O rage of rusty cancred mynde thys sclaundrous talke amende, If fortunes grace wyl graunt it thus, let hym vnto hys ende Lyue styll my Iason as he was, but if not Iason myne, Yet caytife suffer Iason lyue, though Iason none of thyne: Who beinge myndfull styll of vs some fauour let hym showe, For these good turnes yt our good will could earst on hym bestowe: Kynge Creon is in all the fault, and onely worthy blame, Who puffed vp wyth scepter proude, vnable for to frame Hys tyckle mynde to modestye, made breache twxt vs agayne, Whom Hymens bands, and link of loue had made but one of twayne, By whom eke from her ender brats the mother (wreatche) is drawne, He breakes the vowe, that gaged is wyth such a precyous pawne. Seke after such a vyllaynes blood, in daunynge panges of smarte Let hym alone be surely dowst, such is hys due desarte, A dungell heapt of Cinders burnt hys Pallayce make I shall, that Malea where in winding strightes, the lyngryng shyppes doe crall, Shal gase on smolthryng turrets tops turmoylde in cracklyng flame. ¶For godsake madame I you praye your tongue to sylence frame. Eke hyde your pryuye languyshyng and greefe in secret vayne: Who wyth a modest mynde abydes the spurres of pryckyng payne, And suffereth sorowes paciently, may it repaye agayne. Who beares a pryuie grudge in brest, and kepes hys malyce close, When least suspection is therof may most anoye hys foes. He leseth oportunytie who vengeance doth requyre, That shewes by open sparks the flame the heate of kyndled fyer. ¶Smal is the grype of greefe that can to reasons lore obaye, And snekyng downe with steling steps can stylie slyppe awaye. But they that throughly sowsed are wyth showers of greater payne, Can not digest such corsyes sharpe, but cast it vp agayne: Fayne wolde I gyue them trouncyng girds. ¶Good doughter dere asswage Thunbrydled swaye, and boyling heat of thys thy gyddie rage: Scant maist thou purchase quyetnesse although thou holde thy tongue. ¶The valiant harte dame Fortune yet durst neuer harme wyth wronge But dreadyng dastards downe she driues. ¶If any corage dure, And harbred be in noble brest, now put the same in vre. ¶The showe of sturdye valiant harte at any tyme doth shyne. ¶No hope doth in aduersytye the way to scape assygne. ¶He that hah none affiance lefts, nor any hope at all, Yet let hym not mystrust the luck of ought that may befall. ¶Thy Cuntrey clene hath cast thee of to let thee synke or swym, As for thy husband Iason he, there is no trust in hym: Of all the wealth, and worldly muck wherwyth thou dyd abounde: No porcion remaynes at all, wherby some helpe is founde.