Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Nuce, ThomasPseudo-Seneca · published 1566 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T60 Imperial Rome: rulers, favour and politi · 500 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T60: caesar, rome, emperor, empire, honour, lord, lucius, great, palsgrave, kings.
The mortal brood the destiny's guide: Themselves they nothing can assure, That certainly doth steadfast bide: Which our last day of life, procure, (Whereof we always should beware,) Much dangerous chances for to try: Unto your troubled mind with care, Now many samples do apply, Which your accursed court hath brought, To bolden you in all your broil: For what hath more your troubles wrought, What doth against you sorer toil, Than fortune doth? thee first of all, Agrippa's child brought forth to life, Whom we Tiberius' daughter call, By law, and eke Prince Caesar's wife, Of many sons a careful dame, I cannot choose but now recount, Whose worthy, glorious, ample name, Throughout the world doth much surmount. So oft with belly bollen that bare Desired fruits, and pieces pledge, Ere long thou suffered'st exiles care, Stripes, chains, and bolts of iron wedge, And mourning much, which so did frame, That death they caused thee to abide. So Livia, Drusus lucky dame In male kind babes, did headlong slide, Into a cruel monstrous deed, And death sore piercing deadly dart. Her Mother's fates doth Iulia speed, To follow straight with all her heart, Who after longer wasted time With bloody falchion keen, was slain, Although for no just cause, or crime. Your Mother eke that once did reign, Who then esteemed of Claudius well, Did wisely wield his court at will, And fruitful was, as you can tell, What could not her desire fulfil? She sometime subject to her slave, To death was put with soldiers blade. What she, that casly hope might have, Toth' skies, her reign to rise have made, Prince Nero's lusty parent great? First tossed with shipman's boisterous force, Then torn with sword in Prince's heat, Did she not lie a senseless corpse? Lo me the tyrant stern will send To irksome shades, and hellish spirits. Why wretch do I the time thus spend? Draw me to death you to whose mights, False fortune hath bequeathed me. I witness now the heavenly power. What dost thou bedlam? leave to flee, With prayer to Gods, who on thee lower. I call to witness Tartar deep, And spirits of Hell revenging freaks Of heinous facts, in dungeon steep, And Sire whom death deserved wreaks. I do not now repine to die, Deck up your ship, and hoist your sail, On frothing seas to winds on high: Let him that guides the helm not fail, To seek the shore of Pharian land. O pippling puff of western wind, Which sacrifice didst once withstand, Of Iphigeneia to death assigned: And close in cloud congealed clad, Did carry her from smoking ears, Which angry, cruel virgin had: This prince also oppressed with cares, Save from this painful punishment, To Diane's temple safely borne: The barbarous moor to rudeness bend, Then Princes courts in Rome forlorn, Have far more civil courtesy: For there doth stranger's death appease The angry Gods in heavens on high, But Roman blood, our Rome must please
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 mortal broode the destnies guide: Them selues they nothing can assure, That certainly doth stedfast bide: Which our last day of life, procure, (Whereof we alwayes should beware,) Much daungerous chaunces for to try: Unto your troubled minde with care, Now many saumples doe apply, Which your accursed court hath brought, To bolden you in all your broyle: For what hath more your troubles wrought, What doth against you sorer toyle, Than fortune doth? thee first of all, Agrippas childe brought forth to life, Whome we Tyberius daughter call, By lawe, and eke Prince Cesars wyfe, Of many sonnes a carefull dame, I cannot choose but nowe recount, Whose worthie, glorious, ample name, Throughout the world doth much surmount. So oft with bellie bolne that bare Desyred fruits, and peaces pledge, Ere long thou suffredst exiles care, Strypes, chaines, and bolts of yron wedge, And mourning much, which so did frame, That death they causde thée to abyde. So Liuia, Drusus luckie dame In male kinde babes, did hedling slyde, Into a cruell monstrous déede, And death sore pearcing deadly dart. Hir Mothers fates doth Iulia speede, To folow streight with all hir hart, Who after longer wasted time With bloudie fauchion kene, was slaine, Although for no iuste cause, or crime. Your Mother eke that once did raigne, Who then estéemd of Claudius well, Did wisely weld his court at will, And fruitfull was, as you can tell, What could not hir desire fulfill? Shée sometime subiect to hir slaue, To death was put with souldiours blade. What shée, that casly hope might haue, Toth skies, hir raigne to rise haue made, Prince Neros lustie parent great? First tost with shipmans boysterous force, Then torne with sword in Princes heat, Did shée not lye a senseles corse? Lo me the tyrant stern will send To yrcksome shades, and hellish sprits. Why wretch do I the tyme thus spend? Draw me to death you to whose myghts, False fortune hath bequeathed mée. I witnesse now the heauenly powre. What doest thou bedlame? leaue to flée, With prayer to Gods, who on thée lowre. I call to witnesse Tartar déepe, And sprytes of Hell reuenging freaks Of hainous facts, in dongeon stéepe, And Syre whome death deserued wreakes. I do not now repyne to dye, Deck vp your ship, and hoyse your saile, On frothing seas to windes on hie: Let him that guydes the helm not fayle, To séeke the shore of Pharian land. O pippling puffe of western wynde, Which sacrifice didst once withstand, Of Iphigen to death assignde: And close in cloude congealed clad, Did carie hir from smoking ares, Which angrie, cruell Uirgine had: This prince also opprest with cares, Saue from this painefull punishment, To Dians temple safely borne: The barbarous Mores to rudenesse bent, Then Princes courts in Rome forlorne, Haue farre more ciuile curtesie: For there doth strangers death appease The angrie Gods in heauens on hie, But Romaine bloud, our Rome must please