Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Studley, John · published 1581 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy T1 Death, grief and revenge typicality 0.82 · 533 words · other edition — not in the analysis
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 piteous mother's mercy mild restoreth nature's face. O shall I shed their guiltless blood? shall I the frame unfolded 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 worser far than he. Tush let them frankly go to wrack no kith nor kin to me They are: dispatch them out of hand: hold, hold, my babes they be God wot, most harmless lambs they are, no crime nor fault have they Alas they be mere innocents, 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 besprent 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 deter, As when between the wrestling winds is raised wrangling war, Each where the tumbling wallowing waves, are hoist and reared high Amid the justling swolues of seas, that hot in fury fry: even so my heart with struggling thoughts now sinks, now swells amain, Wrath sometime chaseth virtue out, and virtue wrath again. O yield thee, yield, a grising grief, to virtue yield thy place: Thou only comfort of our stock in this afflicted case, Come heather, come dear loved Imp, with colling me embrace, While that by me your mother dear sweet Boys ye are enjoyed, So long God grant your Father may you keep from harm uncloyed. Exile and flight approach on me, and they shall by and by Be pulled perforce out of mine arms, with vapoured weeping Eye, Sore languishing with mourning 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 perished 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 for my revenge hath yielded little store: Yet for my sire and brother, twain I have, there needs no more: Whom seek this ruffling rout of Fiends with gargoyle Visage dight? Where will they deal their stripes, or whom with whips 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 wreathings wrapped round, As soon as did the lashing whip flirt out with jerking sound.
Other edition — placed after the fit, excluded from the main statistics
Position
nodes 1362–1409 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 28 of 30 in this edition
Length
533 words · 708 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.820 (cosine to the topic centroid) · placed after the fit (approximate_predict), not counted in the topic statistics
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 heart of wife agaynſt her Spouſe hath yeelded place, And pitious mothers mercy milde reſtoreth natures face. O ſhall I ſhed their guiltleſſe bloude? ſhall I the frame vnfoulde Of that, which louing natures hande hath wrought in me her moulde? O doting fury chaunge thy minde, conceiue a better thought, Let not this haynous ſauage deede by meanes of mee be wrought. What cryme haue they (poore fooles) cōmit, for which they ſhould abye? Vpon theyr Father Iaſon right all blot of blame ſhould lye. Medea yet theyr Mother I am worſer farre then hee. Tuſh let them frankly goe to wracke no kith nor kin to mee They are: diſpatch them out of hand: holde, holde, my babes they be God wot, moſt harmeleſſe lambes they are, no crime nor fault haue they Alas they bee mere innocents, I doe not this denay: So was my brother whom I ſlew: O falſe reuolting mynde, Why doſt thou ſtaggring to and fro ſuch chaunge of fancies fynde? Why is my Face be ſprent with teares, what makes mee falter ſo, That wrath & loue with ſtriuing thoughts doe leade mee to and fro? Such fighting fancies bickringe ſtormes my ſwaruing minde detarre, As when betwene the wreſtling windes is rayſed wrangling warre, Eche where the tumbling wallowing waues, are hoyſt and reared hye Amid the iuſtling ſwolues of ſeas, that hot in fury frye: Euē ſo my hart with ſtrugling thoughts now ſinks, now ſwells amaine, Wrath ſometyme chaſeth vertue out, and vertue wrath agayne. O yeelde thee, yeelde, a griſing griefe, to vertue yeelde thy place: Thou onely comforte of our ſtocke in this afflicted caſe, Come heather, come deere loued Impe, with colling mee imbrace, Whyle that by me your mother deere ſweete Boyes yee are enioyed, So long God graunt your Father may you kepe from harme vncloyed. Exile and flight approach on mee, and they ſhall by and by Be pulde perforce out of myne armes, with vapourde weeping Eye, Sore languiſhing with mourning heart, yet let them goe to graue Before their fathers Face, as they before their mothers haue: Now rancorus griefe, with firy fits begins to boyle agayne, The quenched coales of deadly hate do freſſher force attayne. The ruſty rancour harbred long within my cancred breſt Starts vp, and ſtirres my hand anew in miſchiefe to bee preſt. O that the rablement of brats which ſwarmde aboute the ſyde Of Niobe that ſcornefull Dame, who periſht by her pryde Had taken lyfe out of his lymmes, O that the fates of heauen A fruictfull mother had me made of chyldren ſeuen and ſeuen. My barreyne wombe for my reuenge hath yeelded litle ſtore: Yet for my ſre and brother, twayne I haue, there needes no more: Whom ſeeke this rufflyng rowt of Feendes with gargell Viſage dight Where will they deale theyr ſtripes, or whō with whips of fier ſmight? Or whom with cruell ſcorching brande and Stygian faggot fell, With miſchief great to cloy, entendes this army black of hell? A chopping Adder gan to hiſſe with wrethings wrapped rounde, As ſoone as did the laſſhing whyp flerte out with yerking ſounde.