Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1566 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.74 · 528 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
The hateful heart of wife against her Spouse hath yielded place, And pityous mother's mercy mild restoreth nature's face. O shall I shed their guiltless blood? shall I the frame unfold Of that, which loving nature's hand hath wrought in me her mould? O doting fury change thy mind, conceive a better thought, Let not this heinous savage deed by means of me be wrought. What crime have they (poor fools) commit for which they should abye? Upon their father Iason right all blot of blame should lie. Medea yet their mother I am worse far than he Tush let them frankly go to wrack, no kith nor kin to me They a●: dispache them out of hand hold, houlde my babes they be God wots most harmless lambs they are, no crime nor fault have they Alas they be mere innocentes I do not this denay: So was my brother whom I slew: o false revolting mind Why dost thou staggering to and fro such change of fancies find? Why is my face be sprent with tears what makes me falter so, That wrath & love with striving thoughts do lead me to and fro? Such fighting fancies bickering storms my swerving mind detar, As when between the wrestling winds is raised wrangling war, Each where the tumbling walloinge waves, are hoist and reared high Amid the justling swolues of seas that hot in furye fry: Even so my heart which struggling thoughts now sinks, now swells amain, Wrath sometime chaseth virtue out and virtue wrath again. O yield the yield, a grysing grief, to virtue yield the place: Thou only comfort of our stock in this afflicted case, Come hither comdere loved imp with coling me embrace, While that by me your mother dear sweet Boys ye are enjoyed So longe god grant your father may you keep from harm uncloyd Exile and flight approach on me, And they shall by and by Be pulled perforce out of mine arms, with vapourd weeping eye Sore languishing with morning heart yet let them go to grave Before their father's face as they before their mothers have: Now rancorous grief with fiery fits begins to boil again, The quenched coals of deadly hate do fresher force attain. The rusty rancour harboured long within my cankered breast Starts up, and stirs my hand anew in mischief to be priest. O that the rabblement of brats which swarmed about the side Of Niobe that scornful dame who perysht by her pride Had taken life out of his limbs. o that the fates of heaven A fruitful mother had me made of children seven and seven. My barren womb ●or my revenge hath yielded little store Yet for my sire and brother, twain I have, their needs no more: whom seek this ruffling rout of fiends with gargoyle visage dight; Where will they deal their stripes, or whom with whyps of fire smite? Or whom with cruel scorching brand and Stygian faggot fell, with mischief great to cloy, intends this army black of hell? A chopping Adder 'gan to hiss with wrethynges wrapped round, As soon as did the lashing whip
nodes 2441–2535 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 28 of 30 in this edition
Length
528 words · 690 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.743 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T7 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
The hatefull hart of wife against her Spouse hath yelded place, And pityous mothers mercy mild restoreth natures face. O shall I shed their giltlesse blood? shall I the frame vnfould Of that, whiche louyng natures hande hath wrought in me her mould? O dotyg fury chaunge thy minde, conceiue a better thought, Let not this haynous sauage dede by meanes of me be wrought. What cryme haue they (poore fooles) cōmit for which they shuld abye? Upon theyr father Iason ryght all blott of blame shuld lye. Medea yet theyr mother I am worser far then he Tush let them frankly go to wracke, no kith nor kyn to me They a: dispache them out of hand hould, hould my babes they be God wot most harmelesse lambes they ar, no cryme nor fault haue they Alas they be mere innocentes I do not this denaye: So was my brother whom I slew: o falce reuoltyng mynd Why doest thou staggryng to and fro suche chaunge of fancyes fynde? Why is my face be sprent with teares what makes me falter so, That wrath & loue with striuing thoughtes do lead me to and fro? Such fyghting fancyes bickeryng stormes my swaruyng mind detar, As when betwene ye wrestling windes is raysed wranglyng war, Eche where the tumblynge walloinge waues, ar hoist and reared hye Amyd the iustlyng swolues of seas that whot in urye frye: Euen so my hart wt strugling thoughts now synkes, now swells aman, Wrath somtyme chaseth vertue out and vertue wrath agayne. O yeld the yeld, a grysyng grefe, to vertue yeld th place: Thou onely comfort of our stocke in this afflicted case, Come hether comdere loued impe with collyng me imbrace, While that by me your mother dere swete Boyes ye are enioyed So longe god graunt your father may you kepe from harme vncloyd Exile and flight approche on me, And they shall by and by Be puld perforce out of myne armes, with vapourd weping eye Sore languishing with moorning hart yet let them go to graue Before heir fathers face as they before their mothers haue: Now rancorus grefe with firy fits begins to boyle agayne, The quenched coles of dedly hate do fressher force attayne. The rustye rancour harbred longe within my cancred brest Startes vp, and stirres my hand anew in myscheife to be prest. O that the rablement of brattes whych swarmde aboute the syde Of Niobe that scornefull dame who perysht by her pryde Had taken lyfe out of hys lymmes. o that the fates of heauen A fruytefull mother had me made of chyldren seuen and seuen. My barreyne wombe or my reuenge hath yeilded lytle store Yet for my sire and brother, twayne I haue, theyr nedes no more: whō seke this rufflyng rowt of feendes wyth gargell vysage dyght; Where wil they deale their stripes, or whom wyth whyps of fyer smite? Or whom wyth cruell scorching brand and Stygian faggot fell, wyth mischeife great to cloy, entendes this armye black of hell? A choppyng Adder gan to hisse wyth wrethynges wrapped round, As soone as dyd the lasshyng whyp