Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1581 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T36 Hell, Furies and the language of punishm · 521 words · other edition — not in the analysis
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 ghosts that joy in wedlock pure, O Iuno thou Lucina height, on whom the chary cure Allotted is of those, that groan in painful childhood bands, 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 fighting 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 whirling hemisphere Divides 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 may with safer conscience call, O Dungeon dark, most dreadful den of everlasting night, O damned Ghosts: O kingdom set against the Gods aright: O Lord of sad and lowering lakes, O Lady dire of Hell, (Whom though that Pluto stolen by force yet did his troth excel The fickle faith of Iasons love, that he to me doth beave,) With cursed throat I conjure you, O grisly Ghosts appear. Come out, come out, ye hellish hags, revenge this deed so dire, Bring in your scraving paws a burning brand of deadly fire. Rise up ye hideous devilish Fiends, as dreadful as ye wear, When unto me in wedlock state ye did sometime appear. Work ye, work ye, the doleful 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 reign: 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, disdained of all, and still in fear of life, Then let him wish ten thousand times for me again his Wife: This famous guest whom every man will entertain and have, Let him be driven at strangers gates the table crumbs to crave. And that my bitter bannings may with mischief most abound, God grant in gulf of like distress his children may be drowned, To sink in sorrows storms, that do their 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, why turns he not his Face,
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)
O Gods whoſe grace doth guide their ghoſtes that ioy in wedlocke pure, O Iuno thou Lucina hight, on whom the chary cure Alotted is of thoſe, that grone in paynfull chyldhed bandes, O Pallas by whoſe heauenly arte, Sir Typhis cunning handes Haue learnde to bridle with his helme his newly framed boate, Wherewith the force of fighting fluds hee breaking rides a floate. O God whoſe forked Mace doth ſtormes in rigour rough appeas, And cauſe the ruffling ſurges couch amid the rampinge Seas: O Titan who vpon the ſwift and werling Hemiſphaer Deuides the chearefull day and night by egall turnes t'appere, O threefolde ſhapen Hecate that sendeſt forth thy light, Vnto thy ſilent Sacrifice that offered is by night, By whom my Iaſon ſware to mee O heauenly powers all, And yee on whom Medea may with ſafer conſcience call, O Dungeon darke, moſt dreadfull den of euerlaſting night, O dampned Ghoſts: O kingdome ſet againſt the Gods aright: O Lord of ſad and lowring lakes, O Lady dyre of Hell, (Whom though that Pluto ſtale by force yet did his troth excell The ficle fayth of Iaſons loue, that hee to mee doth beave,) With curſed throate I coniure you, O griſly Ghoſtes appeare. Come out, come out, yee helliſh hagges, feuenge this deede ſo dyre, Bring in your ſcrauing pawrs a burning brand of deadly fyre. Riſe vp yee hiddeous diueliſh Feendes, as dreadfull as yee weare, When vnto me in wedlocke ſtate yee did ſometime appeare. Worke yee, worke yee, the dolefull death of this new wedded Wyfe. And martir yee this Father in lawe: depryue of breath and lyfe King Creons ruthfull family: in plunge of paſſing payne Torment yee mee, that on my ſpoule doe wiſhe this woe to raygne: Preſerue my Iaſons life, but yet let him be bayted out A myching, roging, rūnagate, in forren townes about. To paſſe from dore to dore, with care to begge his needy bread, Not knowing in what harbring place to couch his curſſed head: A baniſht wretch, diſdaynde of all, and ſtill in feare of lyfe, Then let him wiſh ten thouſand times for me agayne his Wyfe: This famous geſt whom euery man will entertayne and haue, Let him be driuē at ſtraungers gates the table ctūmes to craue. And that my bytter bannings may with miſchiefe moſt abounde, God graunt in gulph of like diſtreſſe his chyldren may be drounde, To ſynke in ſorrowes ſtormes, that doe their mother ouerflowe: Now, now, I haue, I haue the full reueng of all my woe, I haue diſpatcht: my pyteous playnt and wordes in vayne I loſe: What ſhall not I with vyolence get vp agaynſt my foes? And wring out of theyr wreſted hands the wedding torch ſo bryght? Shall I not force the firmament to loſe his ſhrinking lyght? What doth my Graundſirs Phoebus face this heauy hap beholde? And ſtandyng gaſyng at this geare yet weſtwarde is he rolde, On glyſtring chariot hoyſted hyghe, and keepes his beaten Race, Amid the chriſtall colourde ſkye, why turnes hee not his Face,