Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Nuce, ThomasPseudo-Seneca · published 1566 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T34 Thebes and royal catastrophe: siege, sla · 433 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T34: thebes, antigone, polynices, creon, eteocles, war, theban, gods, dear, country.
A Lack the people's bitter love, And dire good will to many one, Which, when they hoisted sails above, With pleasant blasts it made to groan, And carried them far from quiet shore, That fainting, leaves them in the deep, And tumbling, raging waters roar. Cornelia piteous wretch, did weep, And sore bewail her sons estate: The people's love did undo them, And wondrous favour, bred them hate: Great worthy peers of noble stem: Of high renown for virtues praise: In faith and eloquence both did pass Their stomachs stout their fame did raise: Ith' laws each one most excellent was. And Scipio, thee did fortune yield Unto like death, and cursed wrack, Whom neither honour's pomp could shield, Nor fenced house thy foes keep back. More to repeat, although I could, Pure present grief forbiddeth sore: Ere while to whom the people would, Her Father's antic court restore, And Brother's wedlock once again, Now weeping, wring hands poor wretch, Unto her cruel, deadly pain, The armed soldiers do her fetch. How safe doth poverty lie content, In thatched house safe shrouded there? High raised towers with blasts are bend, Which often times them over bear. Where pull you me poor wretch? alas, Into what banished exiles place, Would Nero have me for to pass, Or fortune bids, with frowning face? If now with fainting strength quite cooled, And with my broils all wearied cease, And longer life she grant me would, If that she work for to increase, My sorrows great with deadly dart, Why is she then so much my foe, In country that I may not part, And leave my life before I go? But now no help of health I feel, Alas I see my Brother's boat: This is the same, whose vaulted keel, His Mother once did set a float. And now his piteous Sister I, Excluded clean from spousal place, Shall be so carried by and by: No force hath virtue in this case, No Gods there be my woes to wreck. The grisly, dreadful drab Erin, Doth wield the world at nod and beck, Who can lament my state, wherein I am, alas, sufficiently? How can Aëdon duly plain, My smarting streams of tears that I Do shed? whose wings I would be feign, If destinies would them grant, to wear. Then would I leave my mourning mates, As swiftly fled, as wings could bear, And so avoid these bloody pates. Then sitting sole in shirwood shirle, And hanging sure, by dandling twig With plaintive pipe I might out twirl My heavy tuned note so big.
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)
A Lack the peoples bitter loue, And dyre good will to many one, Which, when they hoysted sayles aboue, With pleasaunt blastes it made to grone, And caried them farre from quiet shore, That faynting, leaues them in the déepe, And tombling, raging waters rore. Cornelia piteous wretch, did wéepe, And sore bewayle hir sonnes estate: The peoples loue did vndoe them, And wondrous fauour, bred them hate: Great worthy péeres of noble stem: Of high renowne for vertues prayse: In faith and eloquence both did pas Their stomacks stout their fame did rayse: Ith lawes eche one most excellent was. And Scipio, thée did fortune yéelde Unto lyke death, and curssed wracke, Whome neyther honours pompe could shéelde, Nor fenced house thy foes kepe backe. Moe to repeate, although I could, Pure present griefe forbiddeth sore: Ere whyle to whom the people would, Hir Fathers antique court restore, And Brothers wedlock once againe, Now wéeping, wringing hands poore wretch, Unto hir cruell, deadly paine, The armed souldiours do hir fetch. How safe doth pouertie lye content, In thetched house safe shrouded theare? Hie raysed towers with blasts are bent, Which often times them ouer beare. Where pull you mee poore wretche? alas, Into what bannisht exiles place, Would Nero haue mée for to pas, Or fortune bids, with frowning face? If now with fainting strength quite coolde, And with my broyles all weried ceasse, And longer life shée graunt me woolde, If that shée work for to increase, My sorrowes great with deadly dart, Why is shée then so muche my foe, In countrie that I maye not part, And leaue my life before I goe? But now no helpe of health I feele, Alas I sée my Brothers boate: This is the same, whose vaulted kéele, His Mother once did set a floate. And now his piteous Sister I, Excluded cleane from spousall place, Shall be so caried by and by: No force hath vertue in this case, No Gods there be my woes to wrecke. The griesly, dreadfull drabbe Erin, Doth weld the worlde at nod and becke, Who can lament my state, wherein I am, alas, sufficientlie? How can Aëdon duely plaine, My smarting streames of teares that I Do shedde? whose wings I would be faine, If destnies would them graunt, to weare. Then would I leaue my mourning mates, As swiftly fled, as wings could beare, And so auoyde these bloudie pates. Then sitting sole in shirwood shirle, And hanging sure, by dandling twigge With plaintiue pype I might out twirle My heauye tuned note so bigge.