Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Nuce, ThomasPseudo-Seneca · published 1566 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T14 Royal love, favour and dynastic relation · 501 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T14: prince, princess, love, king, lord, queen, madam, grace, lady, life.
The garrisons great with fury astoned again, And stirred up for Queen Octavia's sake With monstrous mischief vile, their rage to slake, They rumbling rush into the Palace far. What dare they do, their counsellors who are? Advance their Empress old, subvert the new: And grant her, brothers beds, as is her due. Which Poppy now, with hole consent doth hold? Yea that unbridled rage in breast uprold, Sets them agog, and makes them wondrous wood. What ever image graven in marble stood, If Poppies badge it bore, or if in sight, It tended for to show her beauty bright, Though it on heavenly altars brave did stand, They break, or pull it down, with sword or hand. Some parts with ropes sure tide, they trail them forth, Which spurned with dirty feet, as though nought worth With filthy stinking mire, they it all bewray. And with their deeds their talk doth jump agree, Which mine amazed mind, thinks true to be. For fiery flames they threat for to prepare, Wherewith to waste, the prince's Palace fair, Unless, unto their furious mood he give His second wife, and with Octavia live, But he by me shall know in what hard stay The City stands: the rulers I'll obey. Alack, what made you cruel wars, in vain To move, sith prisoner love you can not gain? You can not him overcome, your fiery flame He recketh not: his sirs overcomes the same. He darkened hath those thundering things that shake Heaven, Earth, Hell, Sea, all things that makes to quake. Yea mighty Ioue, in heaven that wears chief crown His flames from welkin high hath brought adown. And you, not victors now, but vanquished, Shall ransom pay, the price of heart's blood red. Love, patient can not be, but hot in rage, No easy thing it is, his wrath t'assuageassuage. Achilles' worthy wight, that was so stout, To twang the Harp he made in Lady's rout, Prince Agamemnon stern that boy benumbed, And rable rude of Gréekes with loue bronds bumd. King Priam's reign he topsy turuis tossed, And goodly Cities great he chief lost. And now my mind sore frighted stands aghast, What Cupid's furious force brings us at last, AH, ah, our captains slow dispatching coil, And our long suffering ire in such a broil, That streams of blood yet do not quench their rage Which they against our proper person wage. And that all Rome, with corpses strewed about, Those cruel villains blood, doth not sweat out. But deeds already done, with death to pay A small thing 'tis, a greater slaughterous day The people's cursed crime, and eke that dame, Whom I did aye suspect, deserves the same. To whom, to yield those peasants would me make: At last she shall, with life our sorrow slake, And with her body's blood shall quench our ire. Then, shall their houses fall by force of fire: What burning both, and buildings fair decay, What beggarly want, and wailing hunger may,
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)
The garisons great with fury astonde againe, And sturred vp for Quéene Octauias sake With monstrous myschiefe vile, their rage to slake, They rumbling rushe into the Pallace farre. What dare they do, their counsailers who are? Aduaunce their Empresse old, subuert the new: And graunt hir, brothers beds, as is hir due. Which Poppie now, with hole consent doth hold? Yea that vnbrideled rage in brest vprold, Sets them agog, and maks them wondrous wood. What euer ymage grauen in marble stood, If Poppies badge it bare, or if in sight, It tended for to shewe hir beautie bright, Though it on heauenly altares braue did stand, They breake, or pull it downe, with sword or hand. Some parts with ropes sure tyde, they trayle thē forth, Which spurnd wt durtie fete, as though naught worth With filthy stinking myre, they it all beray. And with their déedes their talke doth iumpe agrée, Which mine amased minde, thinks true to bee. For fierie flames they threat for to prepare, Wherewith to waste, the princes Pallace faire, Unlesse, vnto their furious moode he giue His second wife, and with Octauia liue, But he by me shall know in what hard staie The Citie stands: the rulers Ile obaie. Alack, what made you cruell warres, in vaine To moue, sith prisoner loue you can not gaine? You can not him ouercome, your fierie flame He recketh not: his syrs ouercomes the same. He darkned hath those thundring things that shake Heauen, Earth, Hel, Sea, al things yt makes to quake. Yea mighty Ioue, in heauen that weares chief crowne His flames from welkin hie hath brought adowne. And you, not victors now, but vanquisshed, Shall raunsome pay, the price of hearts bloud red. Loue, pacient can not be, but hote in rage, No easie thing it is, his wrath t'asswage. Achilles worthy wight, that was so stout, To twang the Harpe he made in Ladies rout, Prince Agamemnon sterne that boy benumd, And rable rude of Gréekes with loue bronds bumd. King Priams raigne he topsie turuis tost, And goodly Cities great he chiefly lost. And now my minde sore frighted stands agast, What Cupides furious force brings vs at last, AH, ah, our captaines sloe dispatching coyle, And our long suffring yre in such a broyle, That streames of bloud yet do not quench their rage Which they against our propre person wage. And that all Rome, with corses strewd about, Those cruell villaines bloud, doth not sweat out. But déedes already done, with death to pay A small thing 'tis, a greater slaughtrous day The peoples curssed crime, and eke that dame, Whome I did aye suspect, deserues the same. To whome, to yelde those peasaunts would me make: At last she shall, with life our sorow slake, And with hir bodies bloud shall quench our yre. Then, shall their houses fall by force of fyre: What burning both, and buildings fayre decay, What beggerly want, and wayling hunger may,