Seneca, Lucius Annaeus / Nuce, ThomasPseudo-Seneca · published 1581 · first performed or written 1566 (Annals) tragedy unassigned nearest T60 Imperial Rome: rulers, favour and politi · 502 words · other edition — not in the analysis
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 destinies guide: Themselves they nothing can assure, That certainly doth steadfast bide: Which our last day of life, procure, (Where of we always should beware,) Much dangerous chances for to try: Unto your troubled mind with care, Now many samples do applies, Which your accursed court hath brought, To holden you in all your broil: For what hath more your troubles wrought, What doth against you sorer toil, Than fortune doth? the 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 chose 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 name 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 easily hope might have, Tooth 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 princes 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 tyiue 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 sprites 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 with stand, Of Iphigen to death assigned And close in Cloud congealed clad, Did carry her from smòking airs, Which angry, cruel Virgin had: This Prince also oppressed, with cares, Save from this painful punishment, To Diane's temple safely horn: The barbarous Moores to rudeness bent, Then princes Courts in Rome forlorn, Have far more Civil courtesy: For there doth strangers 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 mortalt broode the deſtnies guide: Themſelues they nothing can aſſure, That certainly doth ſtedfaſt bide: VVhich our laſt day of life, procure, (VVhere of we alwayes ſhould beware,) Much daungerous chaunces for to try: Vnto your troubled minde with care, Now many ſaumples do applys, Which your accurſed court hath brought, To holden you in all your broyle: For what hath more your troubles wrought, What doth againſt you ſorer toyle, Than fortune doth? the firſt of all, Agrippas childe brought forth to life, Whome we Tyberius daughter call, By lawe, and eke Prince Caeſars wife, Of many ſonnes a carefull dame, I cannot choſe but now recount, Whoſe worthy, glorious ample name, Throughout the world doth much ſurmount. So oft with belly bolne that bare Deſyred fruicts, and peaces pledge, Ere long thou ſufferedſt exiles care, Strypes, chaines, and boltes of yron wedge, And mourning much, which ſo did frame, That death they cauſde thee to abyde. So Liuia, Druſus lucky name In male kinde babes, did hedling ſlyde, Into a cruell monſtrous deede, And death ſore pearcing deadly dart. Hir mothers fates doth Iulia ſpeede, To folow ſtreight with all hir heart, Who after longer waſted time With bloudy fauchion kene, was ſlaine, Although for no iuſt cauſe or crime. Your mother eke that once did raigne, Who then eſteemd of Claudius well, Did wiſely weld his court at will, And fruitfull was, as you can tell, What could not her deſire fulfill: Shee ſometime ſubiect to hir ſlaue, To death was put with ſouldiours blade. VVhat ſhee, that eaſly hope might haue, Toth ſkies, hir raigne to riſe haue made, Prynce Neroes luſty Parent great? Firſt toſt with ſhipmans boyſterous force, Then torne with ſword in Prynces heat, Did ſhee not lye a ſenceles corſe, Loe mee the tyrant ſtern will ſend To yrckſome ſhades and helliſh ſprits. Why wretch doe I the tyiue thus ſpend? Draw mee to death you to whoſe myghts, Falſe Fortune hath bequeathed mee. I witneſſe now the heauenly powre. What doſt thou bedlame? leaue to flee, With prayer to Gods, who on thee lowre. I call to witneſſe Tartar deepe, And ſprytes of Hell reuenging freakes Of haynous facts, in Dgeon ſteepe, And Syre whom death deſerued wreakes. I doe not now repyne to dye, Deck vp your Ship, and hoyſe your Sayle, On frothing ſeas to windes on hye: Let him that guides the Helm not fayle, To ſeeke the ſhore of Pharian Land. O pippling puffe of weſtern wynde, Which ſacrifice didſt once with ſtand, Of Iphigen to death aſfignde And cloſe in Cloude congealed clad, Did cary hir from ſmòking aaes, Which angry, cruell Virgin had: This Prynce alſo oppreſt, with cares, Saue from this paynefull puniſhment, To Dians temple ſafely horne: The harbarous Moores torueneſſe bent, Then Prynces Courtes in Rome forlorne, Haue farre more Cyuile curtſie: For there doth ſtraungers death appeaſe The angry Gods in heauens on hie, But Romayne bloude, our Rome muſt pleaſe.