Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Nuce, ThomasPseudo-Seneca · published 1566 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy T40 Sin, guilt and violent loss within famil typicality 0.87 · 506 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T40: brother, death, life, die, heaven, sin, live, father, blood, soul.
THough much I bear the boiling breast do beat, And tolerably take devorcements threat, deaths only deadly dart, I see an end, Of all my broil & pinching pain can send. What pleasant light to me, O wretch is left, My natural Mother slain, and Sire bereft, Of breathing life, by treason, and by gilt: Of Brother eke deprived: with miseries spilled: And wailing overcome: kept down with care, Envied of Make, which I dare not declare. To maiden subject now, and now defied: What pleasant light can me, O wretch, abide With fearful heart suspecting always aught: Because I would, no wicked deed were wrought: Not that I fear deaths grisly girning face, God grant I do not so revenge my case? A better deed to die: for, to behold The tyrants visage grim, with brows uprolde, And with soft tender lips, my foe to kiss, And stand in awe of becks, and nods of his, Whose will to please, my grief with cares yfired, Since brother's death by wicked wile conspired, Can never once vouchsafe for to sustain, Less grief to die, than thus to live in pain. His Empire Nero rules, and joys in blood: The cause and ground of death that tyrant wood. How oft alas, doth fancy fond fain, When slumber sweet in pensive parts doth reign, And sleep in eyes, all tired, with tears doth rest, I apprehend dear Britain's lively breast? Ere while me thinks, his feeble shivering hands He fenceth sure, with deadly blazing brands, And fiercely on his brother Nero's face, With sturdy stinging strokes, he flies apace. Ere while thilk wretch recoileth back again, And to my thews for aid retires amain: Him foaming foe pursues with haste to have: And while my brother I desire to save, And in my clasped arms to shield him free, His gory bloudyed falchion keen, I see The boisterous romping fiend to tug, and hale Through out my shivering limbs, as ashes pale. Forthwith a mighty trembling chattering quake, From weary limbs, all supple sleep doth shake, And makes me, woeful wretch, for to recount, My wailing sobbing sorrows that surmount. Hereto, put to that gorgeous stately mouse, All glistering bright, with spoils of Claudius' house. His parent dear in bubbling boat did douse. That wicked son, this fisking dame to please. Whom yet escaping dangers great of Seas, He fiercer freak than waves that scantly rest, With bloody blade her bowels did unbreast. What hope of health, can me, O wretch, abide, That after them thilk way I should not ride? My special foe, triumphant wise doth weight, With naked nates to press, by lovers sleight, Our spousal, pure, and clean unspotted bed: 'Gainst whom, she burns, with deadly food blood red. And, for a meed of filthy strumpet's sport, She causeth Make from spouse for to divort. O ancient Sire, step forth from Limbo lake, Thy daughters heavy troublous cares to slake: Or your twi-gated hellish porch unfold, That down through gaping ground I may be rolled.
seed 43: T37 · seed 44: T36 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
THough much I beare ye boiling brest do beate, And tollerably take deuorcements threate, Deathes only deadly dart, I sée an ende, Of all my broyle & pinching payne can sende. What pleasant light to me, O wretch is left, My naturall Mother slayne, and Sire bereft, Of breathing life, by treason, and by gilt: Of Brother eke depriude: with miseries spilt: And wayling ouercome: kept downe with care, Enuied of Make, which I dare not declare. To mayden subiect nowe, and nowe defied: What pleasant light can me, O wretch, abide With fearefull heart suspecting alwayes ought: Bicause I woulde, no wicked déede were wrought: Not that I feare Deathes griesly girning face, God graunt I doe not so reuenge my case? A better déede to dye: for, to beholde The Tyrantes visage grimme, with browes vprolde, And with soft tender lippes, my foe to kisse, And stande in awe of becks, and noddes of his, Whose will to please, my griefe with cares yfirde, Since brothers death by wicked wyle conspirde, Could neuer once vouchsafe for to sustaine, Lesse griefe to die, than thus to lyue in payne. His Empire Nero rules, and ioyes in bloud: The cause and grounde of death that tirant wood. Howe ofte alas, doth fansie fondly fayne, When slumber swete in pensiue parts doth raygne, And sléepe in eyes, all tyrde, wyth teares doth rest, I apprehende deare Brittans liuely brest? Ere whyle me thinks, his féeble shiuering hands He fenseth sure, with deadly blasing brands, And fiercely on his brother Neros face, With sturdy stinging strokes, he flyes apace. Ere while thilke wretch recoyleth backe againe, And to my thews for ayde retyres amaine: Him foming foe pursues with hast to haue: And whyle my brother I desire to saue, And in my clasped armes to shield him frée, His goarie bloudyed faucheon kéene, I sée The boysterous raumping fiende to tugge, and hale Through out my shiuering limmes, as ashes pale. Forthwith a mightie trembling chattering quake, From wearie limmes, all souple sléepe doth shake, And makes me, wofull wretch, for to recount, My wailing sobbing sorrowes that surmount. Hereto, put to that gorgeous stately mouse, All glistring bright, with spoyles of Claudius house. His parent deare in bubbling boate did douse. That wicked sonne, this fisking dame to please. Whome yet escaping daungers great of Seas, He fiercer freake than waues that scantly rest, With bloudy blade hir bowels did vnbrest. What hope of health, can me, O wretch, abyde, That after them thilke waye I shoulde not ryde? My speciall foe, triumphant wise doth weight, With naked nates to presse, by louers sleyght, Our spousall, pure, and cleane vnspotted bed: Gainst whome, she burns, with deadly foode bloud red. And, for a meede of filthy strumpets sport, She causeth Make from spouse for to diuort. O auncient Syre, steppe forth from Limbo lake, Thy daughters heauie troublous cares to slake: Or your twygated hellysh porche vnfolde, That down through gaping ground I may be rolde.