work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
5574,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO.,2005-06-01 00:00:00 UTC," Painters and Poets never should be fat--
Sons of Apollo! listen well to that.
Fat is foul weather--dims the fancy's sight:
In poverty, the wits more nimbly muster:
Thus stars, when pinch'd by frost, cast keener lustre
On the black blanket of old mother night.
Your heavy fat, I will maintain,
Is perfect birdlime of the brain;
And, as to goldfinches the birdlime clings--
Fat holds ideas by the legs and wings.
Fat flattens the most brilliant thoughts,
Like the buff-stop on harpsichords, or spinets--
Muffling their pretty little tuneful throats,
That would have chirp'd away like linnets.
(cf. pp. 12-3 in 1787 ed.)",2012-06-27,14889,"•I've included twice: Weather and Vision.
","""Fat is foul weather--dims the fancy's sight""","",2014-03-03 19:51:45 UTC,""
5647,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO.,2005-03-26 00:00:00 UTC," What dire emotions shook the Monarch's soul!
Just like two billiard balls his eyes 'gan roll,
Whilst anger all his royal heart possess'd,
That, swelling, wildly bump'd against his breast,
Bounc'd at his ribs with all its might so stout,
As resolutely bent on jumping out,
T'avenge, with all its pow'rs the dire disgrace,
And nobly spit in the offender's face.
Thus a large dumpling to its cell confin'd
(A very apt allusion to my mind),
Lies snug, until the water waxeth hot,
Then bustles 'midst the tempest of the pot:
In vain!--the lid keeps down the child of dough,
That bouncing, tumbling, sweating, rolls below.
(pp. 11-2 in 1785 edition)",2012-06-27,15094,"•Wolcot here uses a metaphor of mind with self awareness INTEREST. USE IN ENTRY?
•I've included twice: Dumpling and Cell","""Thus a large dumpling to its cell confin'd / (A very apt allusion to my mind).""",Rooms,2014-03-03 18:19:21 UTC,Canto I
5685,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2005-05-11 00:00:00 UTC,"Then comes a troop in gilded uniform,
The goodly band Johnsonian. Cowley first,
Poetic child, whose philosophic muse
Distracts, delights, torments, and captivates.
Let me attend, when, from the world retir'd,
He turn'd his restive Pegasus to graze,
And thought, and wrote, sedate and sober prose.
Comes Milton next, that like his wakeful bird
Sings darkling, sings and mourns his eye-sight lost,
And nightly wanders to the Muses' haunt,
Clear spring, or shady grove, or sunny hill,
Smit with the love of sacred song; to us
Displaying nature, and the blissful scenes
Of Paradise, though not to him returns
Day, or the sweet approach of ev'n or morn,
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose,
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine.
Sweet bard, that bears us softly now, and, smooth
As that unwrinkled flood that slowly winds
By Windsor's haughty tow'rs, and visits shores
Divinely various--rushes now, and leaps,
Confounding sense, immeasurable depth,
A foaming cataract, whose thund'ring fall
Disorders hell, and utmost earth and heav'n.
Comes Butler then, incomparable wit,
And not to be reprov'd, save when his muse
Decorum overleaps, and here and there
Bolts the coarse jest, to the chaste eye and ear
Offensive; for behind the comic mask
We find the scholar and the man of sense,
The friend of virtue, and the foe of vice.
Then follows courtly Waller, and in vain
On Amoret or Saccharissa calls,
With budget full of trifles, birth-day odes,
Congratulations, songs, and compliments,
And mythologic tales. Then Denham charms,
And from his own Parnassus, Cooper's Hill,
Sings the wide prospect that extended lies
Under his proud survey. Then Sprat. And then
Roscommon fills with elegant remark,
His verse as elegant; unspotted lines
Flow from a mind unspotted as themselves.
Then Wilmot tunes his reed, and in his song
Gives early specimen of genius, rare
And prone to excellence. But ah! how vain
Poetic hopes! The prime of life is lost,
His talent wasted, and the giddy fool
Grows old in pleasure, and denies his God.
The grave in view, a holy friend his guide,
He views his conduct with remorse, repents,
Acknowledges his fault, curses the wit
Of erring man that so outwits itself,
And dies, a martyr to the pains of vice.
Then Yalden sings, and fills us with delight,
His harp so tun'd that as the morning breaks
It breathes spontaneous rapture, and again
At ev'ning close with solemn eulogy
Welcomes the reign of night. With dewy eye
But harlot tear, then Otway's muse begins,
And charms who hears her with her Syren air;
To decency, alas, no friend, to vice
No enemy. His Celia then proclaims
Enamour'd Duke, at Floriana's grave
Sweet lamentation chanting. Dorset then
Hums nobly liberal, and hums too much,
Scarce heard an hour. Chaste Montague succeeds,
Stepney less pure, and Walsh with feeble wing
Half flying, half on foot. Then comes a bard,
Worn out and penniless, and poet still
Though bent with years, and in impetuous rhyme
Pours out his unexhausted song. What muse
So flexible, so generous as thine,
Immortal Dryden. From her copious fount
Large draughts he took, and unbeseeming song
Inebriated sang. Who does not grieve,
To hear the soul and insolent rebuke
Of angry satire from a bard so rare?
To trace the lubricous and oily course
Of abject adulation, the lewd line
Of shameless vice, from page to page, and find
The judgment brib'd, the heart unprincipled,
And only loyal at th' expence of truth,
Of justice, and of virtue? Meaner strain
The dapper wit commends of sprightly Garth.
We smile to see fantastic Poetry
Shake hands with Physic, and with grave burlesque
Arrange his gallipots, and gild his pills;
Then march in dreadful armour to the field,
To screen her new ally from hostile shocks,
With pestle truncheon, Cloacinian helm,
And levell'd squirt. Then heartily we laugh
With laughter-loving King, and much applaud
That vein of mirth which, innocent and clear,
In silver neatness flows. Young Phillips then,
Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme,
A shilling, breeches, and chimeras dire,
Sings gravely jocund. Dismal rag applauds,
With sympathetic ardour touch'd, at sound
Of tatter'd galligaskins, college duns,
And subtle catchpole. Modest Pomfret then,
To soar aloft unable, with light wing
Above the plain scarce elevated skims,
A short and feeble flight. So have I seen
The spaniel-hunted quail with lowly wing
Shear the smooth air: and so too have I heard
That she can sweetly clamour, though compell'd
To tread the humble vale, nor ever mount
High as the ev'ning swift or morning lark.
Then blameless Hughes, in union with Pepusch,
Still to the eloquent orchestra tunes
His virtuous, unmeaning song. And now,
In tones that might attract an angel's ear,
Flows the smooth strain of righteous Addison.
Then Blackmore says an everlasting tale,
Bless'd with a callous muse. Genius in vain
Laughs at the fond attempt, for still he bawls,
And with gigantic dissonance subdues
The universal hiss. No poet--true--
But mark the man, and you shall find him good.
And what's the poet if the man be naught?
Let Buckingham reply. Genius and wit
May flourish for a day, and snatch the wreath
From awkward probity; but soon shall fade
The ready laurels of a vicious muse,
While amaranthine honours crown the brow
Of unpoetic virtue. Waller's muse
In courteous Granville lives, in Granville dies.
Who can refuse applause to tragic Rowe?
Who can withhold his honest praise from thee,
Tickel, thou friend of Addison, and virtue?
Who is not startled at the fertile wit
Of beardless Congreve? and who does not grieve
That 'twas not drawn in the defence of virtue?
How sweet the music of thy happy lines,
Poetic Prior; full of mirth thy muse,
And exquisite her jest. Ah! hear it not,
Ye sober fair, for fulsome is the tale,
And only fit for the distemper'd ear
Of jovial libertines. His graver song
Applaud unsatisfied, and ever laugh
To see him mount his furious Pegasus
Pindaric, often back'd, but back'd in vain,
And never to be tam'd by crazy wits.
'Twas an unruly and a hard-mouth'd horse,
""And slung his rider if he sat not sure,""
Dan Cowley said. Yet up sprung Mat, resolv'd.
O'er sea and land with an unbounded loose
Runs the mad steed, a Gilpin race I ween.
Hardly the muse can sit the head-strong horse.
See, now she gallops round the Belgic shore,
Now through the raging ocean ploughs her way,
To rough Ierne's camps; there sounds alarms,
In the dank marshes finds her glorious theme,
And plunges after him through Boyne's fierce flood.
Back to his Albion then, then with stiff wing
East, over Danube and Propontis' shores,
From the Moeotis to the northern sea,
To visit the young Muscovite; thence up,
Resolv'd to reach the high empyrean sphere,
And ask for William an Olympic crown.
Till, lost in trackless fields of shining day,
Unhors'd, and all revers'd, down, down she comes,
Comes rushing with uncommon ruin down.
Glorious attempt, but not unhappy fate.
'Twas lucky, Mat, thou had'st not giv'n a name
To some Icarian gulf, or shook at least
The carnal man so sore, that he had limp'd,
And lamely hobbled to the verge of life;
But, thanks to fate, thy pace is even yet,
And happily the Muse her mirthful song
In durance vile prolongs. So have I heard
The captive finch, in narrow cage confin'd,
Charm all his woe away with cheerful song,
Which might have melted e'en a heart of steel
To give him liberty. Hence, hence, away
Ye meaner wits, hide your diminish'd heads,
See genius self approaches. Homer's soul
A puny child informs. Let envy laugh
To see an urchin ugly as herself
The glory of our isle. For thee, great bard,
We twine the laurel wreath, and grant it thine
Thrice-won. Shall any mortal tongue presume
To scatter censure on thy charming page?
Hark, 'tis the din of twenty thousand curs
Who bark at excellence. Who best deserves
Must feel the scourge of infinite abuse,
For man to man is fiercer than the wolf,
More cruel than the tiger. Who can brook
The sight of aught more worthy than himself?
Invite an angel from the courts of heav'n,
Our critic eye shall spy a thousand faults
Where not a fault exists. Mistake me not,
I name not thee an angel, haughty bard,
Thy deeds were human. With an honest heart
I love the poet, but detest the man.
Thy purer lays what mortal can despise,
Thy baser song what mortal can approve,
Thou witty, dirty, patriotic Dean?
Laugh on, laugh on. With pencil exquisite
Picture the features of encourag'd vice,
And fashionable folly. Give the fair,
The peerless Stella, everlasting worth,
Deride thy narrow paper-sparing friend;
And gall the great. But why shall thy sweet Muse
Turn scavenger, and the foul kennel rake
For themes and similes? What heart but grieves,
To find an equal portion in thy song
Of elegantly fair and grossly foul?
Now honest Gay, a city shepherd, sings,
Nor sings in vain to us. In Arcady
We love to stray, and dream of happy days
No eye has seen, no heart has felt. We love
The land of Fairy, and the puny deeds
Of dapper elves. Whate'er the frantic poet
In his wild mood imagines, we applaud.
Nor wholly scorn with Gay or Broom to stray,
Or Ambrose Philips, through enchanted land
To painted meadows, flow'ry lawns and hills,
To crystal floods, cool groves, and shady bow'rs,
And rills that babble, tinkle, purl, and murmur.
How sweet the song that from thy mellow pipe,
Dear Parnel, flow'd. Death overheard amaz'd,
And his stone couch forsook, all wonder now,
And now all envy. Sure he thought no bard
Of mortal mixture could such tones create;
Or if of mortal mixture, he had liv'd
Double the days of man, and stol'n from years
Due to the reign of silence and of death,
Song so divine. With the bad thought possess'd,
He keen'd his arrow on a flint, advanc'd,
And threw it greedily, his lipless jaws
Gnashing with hate. So fell betimes the bard,
So triumph'd death, and at the bloody deed
Shook his lean bones with laughter. Cursed fiend,
Thou bane of excellence, go hence, and laugh;
Yet shall the pious poet sing again,
And thou shalt hear, and with eternal wrath
Ay burning, dance with agony, and gnaw,
Howling for pain, the adamantine gates
Of treble-bolted Hell.",,15184,
,"""His verse as elegant; unspotted lines / Flow from a mind unspotted as themselves.""",Writing,2009-09-14 19:42:58 UTC,""
5732,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2004-08-11 00:00:00 UTC," ""Doubtless"" said he: ""O it delights me much
""To find such sense in woman, she can see
""The fatal tendency of tales like these.
""'Tis thus the arch deceiver, busy still
""To ruin man, besets the female heart,
""Insinuates evil counsel, and inflames
""The hungry passions, that like arid flax
""Catch at a spark, and mount into a blaze.
""The passions heated, reason strives in vain;
""Her empire's lost, and the distracted soul
""Becomes the sport of devils, wholly bent
""To turn and wind it in a world of sin.""
",2012-04-03,15275,"","""'Tis thus the arch deceiver, busy still / To ruin man, besets the female heart, / Insinuates evil counsel, and inflames / The hungry passions, that like arid flax / Catch at a spark, and mount into a blaze.""","",2012-04-03 20:53:21 UTC,""
6179,"","Searching ""paper"" and ""mind"" in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO",2005-03-26 00:00:00 UTC,"In vain at glory gudgeon Boswell snaps--
His mind's a paper kite--compos'd of scraps;
Just o'er the tops of chimneys form'd to fly;
Not with a wing sublime to mount the sky.
Say to the dog, his head's a downright drum
Unequal to the history of Tom Thumb:
Nay tell of anecdote that thirsty leech,
He is not equal to a Tyburn speech.
",,16355,"","""In vain at glory gudgeon Boswell snaps-- / His mind's a paper kite--compos'd of scraps / Just o'er the tops of chimneys form'd to fly.""","",2014-03-03 17:16:37 UTC,""
6859,"","",2011-05-20 16:46:28 UTC,"Quick parts and good practical sense and judgment are of a very different complexion [r], and have not unfrequently a separate existence. Men are caught indeed by the effusions of a brilliant fancy and bright imagination; but its refulgence and flashes, like the coruscations of the diamond, serve only to sparkle in the eye of the beholder, and to dazzle his sight, without further use or advantage to any one: whereas practical good sense circulates like current coin to general profit. Shining parts, like the bright colourings of porcelain, or the lustres of glass in a well furnished house, are beautiful decorations and striking ornaments; but good sense, like the solid service of plate, is alone substantial and intrinsically valuable. Sound judgment is of daily life, not only to its possessor, but to all, who have the good fortune to be connected with him. There is no station in life, which a plain, good understanding does not adorn, no occurrence of daily experience, which does not partake of its genial influence. The man of parts may be admired for his quickness, as the racer is, who flies before the wind; but it is the draft or road-horse of steadier pace that (like good sense) is useful to mankind. It is not the warmth and elevations of fancy, or the quick and bright assemblage of ideas, which irradiate the paths of beneficial truth; since none are more liable to error than they, who conduct themselves by the wild and dancing light of imagination alone. None can less bear the sobriety of plain reasoning, or have less patience to trace the process of a serious argument than they, whose fire and vivacity make them love nothing, but what is uncommon, marvellous, and striking. But useful truths and moral duties are neither uncommon nor marvellous; and consequently the exalted and elastic genius is apt to decry the poor, low, groveling spirit of those, who seek to conciliate the affections and to deserve the respect of mankind, by an anxiety to perform the plain duties of social life. The fear of being shackled by vulgar rules and vulgar opinions without inquiring into their propriety, decency, or truth, is the bane of many a promising genius, who owes his ruin to what he prides himself on possessing—-superior abilities; since these may be specious without solidity, and showy without sense.—-Such an one may likewise be endued (or think he is so) with a soul of sensibility; but not having cultivated the practical powers of a discriminating judgment, his affectation of sentiment will lead him captive at will, and his acute feelings will as often be exercised on wrong as right objects. He will encroach in many a particular on the powers of this poor tortured word, and will plead a sensibility in love, in friendship, in compliance with evil, as a sufficient, nay a meritorious excuse for transgressing the plainest rules of common sense and common morality. So little then are either bright parts, or the mere effusions of sentiment to be deemed respectable, unless they submit to be guided by discretion, prudence, and judgment; they may assist as ornamental and enlivening auxiliaries, but are too capricious, volatile, and unsteady, to be ever safely entrusted with the supreme command.
(pp. 371-2)
",,18455,"","""Shining parts, like the bright colourings of porcelain, or the lustres of glass in a well furnished house, are beautiful decorations and striking ornaments; but good sense, like the solid service of plate, is alone substantial and intrinsically valuable.""",Metal,2011-05-20 16:58:21 UTC,""
7837,"",ECCO-TCP,2014-03-12 15:24:24 UTC,"Impressed with this idea, the painter has represented a scene, wherein an honest, old man is accused before a magistrate of crimes of which he never was guilty, and a villain, behind the pillar, is enjoying the accusation. That the countenance is an index of the mind, he has here fully shewn; honesty being pictured in the countenance of the accused, and villainy in that of his accusers. The prisoner appeals only to the integrity of his heart.--""God, says he, ""is witness to my innocence; I have no upbraiding conscience; on my character do I depend for support, it is my only resource--Take away my Good Name, and take away my Life! His guiltless heart is his best defence; he needs no evidence in his favour; the prevaricating accusation destroys itself; and the judge, seeing through the conspiracy, acquits the accused, and condemns his accusers.
(pp. 58-9)",,23629,"","""That the countenance is an index of the mind, he has here fully shewn; honesty being pictured in the countenance of the accused, and villainy in that of his accusers.""","",2014-03-12 15:24:24 UTC,""
7837,"",ECCO-TCP,2014-03-12 15:25:09 UTC,"We are here taught also not to repine at a circumscribed fortune, but make the best of our situation; and, if we have not an income equal to our expences, to proportion our expences to our income, and Cut our Coat according to our Cloth. If a man cannot afford a joint of meat at his table every day, let him be satisfied with it every other day, and know, that A contented Mind is a continual Feast.--Let him take a view of his own neighbourhood, and he will see, that if there are some men richer than himself, there are some also poorer, and that his own situation is not the most wretched. Every man is the centre of a circle, some of a smaller, some of a greater; and if in that circle of life he does his duty as a good man ought; he is equally respectable with him who acts like himself in a larger circle. If he has fewer indulgencies, he has fewer cares: though money may bring luxuries, it brings also anxiety--for, Much Coin, Much Care.
(p. 64)
A barbarity of disposition, a ferocity of temper is too often inculcated by practices; which, though in our childhood, may be considered as of little moment, produce, in our riper years, very serious consequences. This passion, like a snow-ball, will gather as it rolls, and gain strength by age. It is the duty, therefore, of parents, and all who have the bringing up of children, to check a cruel disposition in its spring, and to fix the dam; remembering, that, although water
--""creeps on by slow degrees,
""Yet brooks make rivers, rivers swell to seas.""
(p. 70)",,23630,"","""This passion, like a snow-ball, will gather as it rolls, and gain strength by age.""","",2014-03-12 15:25:09 UTC,""
7837,"",ECCO-TCP,2014-03-12 15:25:58 UTC,"Vain are a man's titles--vain his wealth--vain his pursuits of pleasure--the guilty mind has no enjoyment--neither rank nor riches can steel the breast against the stings of conscience--""The wicked fleeth when no man pursueth.""--He flies, like a hunted deer, from the terrors of his own mind, and the dread of future punishment drives him to despair.
(p. 71)",,23631,"","""Vain are a man's titles--vain his wealth--vain his pursuits of pleasure--the guilty mind has no enjoyment--neither rank nor riches can steel the breast against the stings of conscience.""",Metal,2014-03-12 15:32:48 UTC,""
7837,"",ECCO-TCP,2014-03-12 15:29:07 UTC,"When any man is discontented with his situation in life, let him compare it with that of others; let him consider whether those riches, that rank and power which many enjoy, do not carry more torments with them, than real happiness; and let us also look into the situation of those below us, and see, whether we are not in possession of many comforts which others want; others, perhaps, who have had better expectations in life, and are more deserving than ourselves. This should surely prevent us from repining at our own misfortunes, and make us thankful to Providence for the blessings he has been pleased to bestow upon us. True happiness is seated in the mind, and within every one's reach If our fortune is not adequate to our wishes, let us confine our wishes to our fortune. Let us make the best of our situation, and not lose the enjoyments of the present moment, in looking forward to the future; that future may never arrive, and if it does, it will bring with it an equal share of bitterness. Let us learn then, as St. Paul teaches us,
in whatever state we are, therewith to be content;
and let us remember, that however enviable a more exalted state of life may appear, there is no state but what has its attendant cases, and that All is not Gold that Glitters.
(pp. 127-8)",,23634,"","""True happiness is seated in the mind, and within every one's reach If our fortune is not adequate to our wishes, let us confine our wishes to our fortune.""",Empire,2014-03-12 15:29:07 UTC,""