Marked words are the most distinguishing words of T1: death, life, dead, die, blood, revenge, soul, father, heart, heaven.
The carcase stirs. The face retains pale death; yet seems to live. Thy death is near; yet ere thou die A great and strange calamity Shall seize thy house, and thou in woe Shalt think the fatal sister's slow In giving death, desiring then Thy reigns short date had shorter been; Yet thou at last in death shalt have (Though thou denied'st it us) a grave. Shame on your damned arts; it does not lie Within the power of fate to work this mischief. Believe it not, my Lord; let's quit the place, And from the wise Tiresias seek advice, Dircus, she's gone, and I am worse than dead, Oh would the villain's arms had had the power To have dispatched me quickly. Good my Lord, Take fairer hopes, and live; cast not away The kingdom's joy; what cruelty can touch So sweet a virtue as Antigone? Retire with me into yond little house; I'll there bind up your wounds; you bleed too fast, And needs must faint before you reach the walls. The wounds I took are scratches. Honest Dircus, What care can ere my body have without The presence of my soul? Delay not Sir. Their goodness will protect them: what other Lady Was that with her? It seems it was Argia Dead Polynices wife, Adrastus' daughter, Or else some grace or goddess in that shape Came to consort with good Antigone. Wandering about the fields to find out you, I met with witches, impious hags, that came As I suppose, for execrable ends There to abuse the bodies of the dead. Oh partial fates, oh too injurious night, Can these escape, when piety must suffer? A faintness seizes me, I prithee Dircus Let me have speedy news. You shall my Lord. When I have dressed you, I'll to court, and thence Bring you a true and swift intelligence. By what new ways of grief shall we Our widowed losses signify? What strange expression can become A woe so strangely burdensome? No howls, no shrieks, no voice of woe, Not such as widowed turtles show, Nor such as Philomel, when she High seated on a poplar tree, Sends sweet sad notes through th' air of night, Wailing the husbandman's despite, That reaved her of her dearest nest. Our loss cannot be so expressed. No, nor by actions, such as are The rending of dishevelled hair, Or beating of our breasts; these all No more than death and funeral Can show; but in our husbands we Receive a greater injury Than death had done; the common rite Of funeral barred in despite. Cease widows longer in that strain To wail, or 'gainst the fates complain For funeral rites; but understand Great Theseus, whose victorious hand In conquests never yet has failed, Is he, with whom we have prevailed For aid; and think what action He undertakes, already done. He will revenge on Creon's head The wrongs that we have suffered. Our dear Lords Ghosts shall righted be. Then join your voices all with me, And in triumphant songs let us Renown the noble Theseus.
nodes 984–1063 (positions in the processed text, not lines of the printed book) · chunk 15 of 23 in this edition
Length
515 words · 689 tokens
Topic (seed 42)
T1 — Death, grief and revengecross-work theme (confirmed, in the genre comparison) · typicality 0.707 (cosine to the topic centroid)
Other seeds
seed 43: T10 · seed 44: T1 — topic numbers are assigned independently in each run; equal or different numbers say nothing by themselves
Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
The carkaſſe ſtirrs. The face retaines pale death; yet ſeemes to liue. Thy death is neare; yet ere thou dy A great and ſtrange calamity Shall ſeize thy houſe, and thou in woe Shalt thinke the fatall ſiſters ſlow In giuing death, deſiring then Thy reignes ſhort date had ſhorter beene; Yet thou at laſt in death ſhalt haue (Though thou denid'ſt it vs) a graue. Shame on your damned arts; it does not ly Within the power of fate to worke this miſcheife. Beleeue it not, my Lord; lett's quit the place, And from the wiſe Tireſias ſeeke aduiſe, Dircus, ſhee's gone, and I am worſe then dead, Oh would the villaines armes had had the power To haue diſpatch'd me quickly. Good my Lord, Take fairer hopes, and liue; caſt not away The Kingdomes ioy; what cruelty can touch So ſweet a vertue as Antigone? Retire with me into yon little houſe; Ile there binde vp your wounds; you bleede too faſt, And needes muſt faint before you reach the walls. The wounds I tooke are ſcratches. Honeſt Dircus, What care can ere my body haue without The preſence of my ſoule? Delay not Sir. Their goodneſſe will protect them: what other Lady Was that with her? It ſeemes it was Argia Dead Polynices wife, Adraſtus daughter, Or elſe ſome grace or goddeſſe in that ſhape Came to conſort with good Antigone. Wandering about the fields to finde out you, I met with witches, impious haggs, that came As I ſuppoſe, for execrable ends There to abuſe the bodies of the dead. Oh partiall fates, oh too iniurious night, Can theſe eſcape, when piety muſt ſuffer? A ſaintneſſe ſeizes me, I prithee Dircus Let me haue ſpeedy newes. You ſhall my Lord. When I haue dreſt you, Ile to court, and thence Bring you a true and ſwift intelligence. By what new wayes of griefe ſhall we Our widow'd loſſes ſignifie? What ſtrange expreſſion can become A woe ſo ſtrangely burdenſome? No howles, no ſhreikes, no voice of woe, Not ſuch as widow'd turtles ſhew, Nor ſuch as Philomel, when ſhee High ſeated on a poplar tree, Sends ſweet ſad notes through th' aire of night, Wailing the husbandman's deſpite, That reau'd her of her deareſt neſt. Our loſſe cannot be ſo expreſt. No, nor by actions, ſuch as are The rending of diſheuel'd haire, Or beating of our breaſts; theſe all No more then death and funerall Can ſhew; but in our husbands we Receiue a greater iniury Then death had done; the common rite Of funerall barr'd in deſpite. Ceaſe widowes longer in that ſtraine To waile, or 'gainſt the fates complaine For funerall rites; but vnderſtand Great Theſeus, whoſe victorious hand In conqueſts neuer yet has faild, Is he, with whom we haue preuail'd For aide; and thinke what action He vndertakes, already done. He will reuenge on Creon's head The wrongs that we haue ſuffered. Our deare Lords Ghoſts ſhall righted be. Then ioine your voyces all me, And in triumphant ſongs let vs Renowne the noble Theſeus.