Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Nuce, ThomasPseudo-Seneca · published 1581 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T57 Ships, merchants and pirates · 533 words · other edition — not in the analysis
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T57: ship, sea, master, sail, home, money, pisaro, life, ships, till.
A woman could, In whom a mind Dame nature hath upfould, To mischief prone: she armed hath her heart, To hurt by wiles: yet strength she set apart, lest she undaunted force with her should bear: But now her slender power with doubting fear, Is quickly quailed, or else with punishment, Which her condemned state to mischief bent To late doth end: away with grave advise, Us with entreating seek not to entice. Dispatch that we command on shipboard horn, Far off to shore aloof with dashing worn, Command she be: that tunlike swelling breast At length in storming stomach may take rest. ALack 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 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 did pass Their stomachs stout their fame did raise: i'th' 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, wringing 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 bent, 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 clote. 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 griefly, dreadful drab Eryn, Doth wield the world at nod and beck, Who can lament my state, wherein I am, alas, sufficiently? How can Aedon duly plain, My smarting streams at bears that I Do shed? whose wings I would be fame, If destinies would them grant, to wear. Then would I leave my mourning mates, As swiftly fled, as wings could bear, Aud so auoyde these bloudy pates. Then sitting sole in shirwood shirle, And hanging sure, by dandling twig With plaintive pipe I might out twarl 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 woman could, In whome a mind Dame nature hath vpfould, To miſchiefe prone: ſhee armed hath hir heart, To hurt by wyles: yet ſtrength ſhee ſet apart, Leaſt ſhee vndaunted force with hir ſhould beare: But now hir ſlender power with doubting feare, Is quickly quaylde, or elſe with puniſhment, Which hir condenmed ſtate to miſchiefe bent To late doth ende: away with graue aduiſe, Vs with entreating ſeeke not to entyſe. Diſpatch that we commund on ſhipboorde horne, Farre off to ſhore aloofe with daſhing worne, Commaund ſhee be: that tunlike ſwelling breſt At length in ſtorming ſtomack may take reſt. ALack 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 from quiet ſhore, That faynting, leaues them in the deepe, And tumbling, raging waters rore. Cornelia piteous wretch did weepe, And ſore bewayle hir ſonnes eſtate: The peoples loue did vndoe them, And wondrous fauour, bred them hate: Great worthy peeres of noble ſtem: Of high renowne for vertues prayſe: In fayth and eloquence did pas Their ſtomacks ſtout their fame did rayſe: Ith lawes eche one moſt excellent was. And Scipio, thee did Fortune yeelde Vnto lyke death, and curſſed wracke, Whom neyther honours pompe coulde ſheelde, Nor fenced houſe thy foes keepe backe. Moe to repeate, although I coulde, Pure preſent griefe forbiddeth ſore: Ere whyle to whom the people woulde, Her Fathers antique Courte reſtore, And Brothers wedlocke once againe, Now weeping, wringing hands poore wretch, Vnto hir cruell, deadly payne, The armed ſouldiours doe hir fetch. How ſafe doth pouerty lye content, In thetched houſe ſafe ſhrouded there? High rayſed towers with blaſts are bent, Which often tymes them ouer beare. Where pull you mee poore wretch? alas, Into what baniſht exiles place, Woulde Nero haue mee for to paſſe, Or Fortune bids, with frowning face? If now with faynting ſtrength quite coolde, And with my broyles all wearied ceaſſe, And longer lyfe ſhee graunt mee woolde, If that ſhee worke for to increaſe, My ſorrowes great with deadly dart, Why is ſhe then ſo much my foe, In country that I may not part, And leaue my life before I goe? But now no helpe of health I feele, Alas I ſee my Brothers boate: This is the ſame, whoſe vaulted keele, His Mother once did ſet a clote. 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 griefly, dreadfull drab Eryn, Doth weld the worlde at nod and becke, Who can lament my ſtate, wherein I am, alas, ſufficientlie? How can Aedon duely playne, My ſmarting ſtreames at beares that I Do ſhedde? whoſe wings I would be fame, If deſtnies would them graunt, to weare. Then would I leaue my mourning mates, As ſwiftly fled, as wings could beare, Aud ſo auoyde theſe bloudy pates. Then ſitting ſole in ſhirwood ſhirle, And hanging ſure, by dandling twigge VVith plaintiue pipe I might out twarle My heauy tuned note ſo bigge.