Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1581 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T12 Olympian gods: Jupiter, Juno, Venus and · 513 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T12: iupiter, saturn, iuno, venus, gods, mars, earth, titan, love, fair.
And that in talk of trust is not the ground, Here in a mirror may he see it plain, Medea so by proof 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 joy, While in the grass the Serpent lurked is, The shaft that flew from Cupid's golden bow, With feathers so hath dimmed her dazzled Eyes, That cannot see to shun the way of woe: The rankling head in dented heart that lies, So dulls the same, that can not understand The cause that brought false Iason out of Greece, 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 filled, 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 meaning seemed to show. In double heart black treason hidden lies, Dissembling thoughts that weave the web of woe. The honeyed Lips, the tongue in sugar dept 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 underlies the same, The Candle blaze delights with burning trim, The Fly, till she be burned in the flame. Who in such shows least deemed any ills. The hungry fish fears not the bait to Brook, Till up the line do pluck him by the gills, 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 dissemble can, Woe to the other that trained so might be. Thoughtst 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 lying lips between, His looks to be the mirror of his mind? Faith in fair Face hath seldom yet been seen. Who listeneth to the flattering mermaids note, Must needs commit his tired eyes to sleep, Yielding to her the taking of his boat, That means unware to drown him in the deep. What booteth thee Medea to betray The golden Fleece, to fawning Jason's 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 ailed thee to shed, With Iason thus to travel and to toil? Behold the meed of this thy good desert, The recompense that he to thee doth give. For pleasure, pain, for joy, most eager smart, With clogging cares in banishment to live.
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 that in talke of truſt is not the grounde, Heere in a mirrour may hee ſee it playne, Medea ſo by proofe the ſame hath founde. Who being blind by blinded Venus Boy, Her bleared Eyes could not beholde her bliſſe: Nor ſpy the preſent poyſon of her Ioy, While in the graſſe the Serpent lurked is, The ſhaft that flew from Cupids golden bowe, With feathers ſo hath dimd her daſeld Eyes, That cannot ſee to ſhun the way of woe: The ranckling head in dented heart that lyes, So dulles the ſame, that can not vnderſtand The cauſe that brought falſe Iaſon out of Greece, To come vnto her fathers fertile Land, Is not her loue, but loue of golden Fleece. Yet was his ſpeache ſo pleaſaunt and ſo milde, His tongue ſo filde, his promiſes ſo fayre, Sweete was the fowlers Song that hath beguilde The ſeely byrd, brought to the limed ſnare. Faith, in his Face, truſt ſhined in his Eyes, The bluſhing brow playne meaning ſeemde to ſhowe. In double hearte blacke treaſon hydden lies, Diſſembling thoughts that weaue the webbe of woe. The honyed Lyppes, the tongue in ſuger dept Doe ſweete the poyſon rancke within the breaſt, In ſubtle ſhew of paynted ſheath is kept, The ruſty knife of treaſon deemed leaſt: Lyfe ſeemes the bayte to ſight that lyeth brim, Death is the hooke that vnderlies the ſame, The Candell blaſe delights with burning trim, The Fly, till ſhee bee burned in the flame. Who in ſuch ſhowes leaſt deemed any ills. The hungry fyſhe feares not the bayte to Brooke, Till vp the lyne doe pluck him by the gylls, And faſt in throate hee feeles the deadly hooke. Woe Iaſon, woe to thee moſt wretched man, Or rather wretch Medea woe to thee, Woe to the one that thus diſſemble can, Woe to the other that trayned ſo might bee. Thoughtſt thou Medea his eyes to bee the glaſſe, Wherein thou might the Face of thoughts beholde? That in his breaſt with wordes ſo couered was, As cancred braſſe with gloſſe of yealow golde? Did thou ſuppoſe that nature (more then kinde) Had placde his heart his lying lyppes betweene, His lookes to be the mirrour of his minde? Fayth in fayre Face hath ſildome yet ben ſeene. Who liſtneth to the flatering Maremaides note, Muſt needes commit his tyred eyes to ſleepe, Yeelding to her the taking of his boate, That meanes vnware to drowne him in the deepe. What booteth thee Medea to betray The golden Fleece, to fawning Isaſons hande, From Dragons teeth him ſafely to conuay, And fyry Bulles the warders of the lande? Why for his ſake from father haſt thou fled, And thruſt thy ſelfe out from thy natiue ſoyle? Thy brothers bloud what ayled thee to ſhed, With Iaſon thus to trauell and to toyle? Beholde the meede of this thy good deſarte, The recompence that hee to thee doth gyue. For pleaſure, payne, for ioy, moſt eger ſmarte, With clogging cares in baniſhment to liue.