text,updated_at,metaphor,created_at,context,theme,reviewed_on,dictionary,comments,provenance,id,work_id
"LADY RANDOLPH.
Silent, alas! is he for whom I mourn:
Childless, without memorial of his name,
He only now in my remembrance lives.
This fatal day stirs my time-settled sorrow,
Troubles afresh the fountain of my heart.
(Act I, p. 8)",2013-06-28 16:18:41 UTC,"""This fatal day stirs my time-settled sorrow, / Troubles afresh the fountain of my heart.""",2013-06-28 16:18:41 UTC,Act I,"",,"","",C-H Lion,21267,7492
"LORD RANDOLPH.
When was it pure of sadness! These black weeds
Express the wonted colour of thy mind,
For ever dark and dismal. Seven long years
Are pass'd, since we were join'd by sacred ties:
Clouds, all the while have hung upon thy brow,
Nor broke, nor parted by one gleam of joy.
Time, that wears out the trace of deepest anguish,
As the sea smooths the prints made in the sand,
Has past o'er thee in vain.
(Act I, p. 8)",2013-06-28 16:22:36 UTC,"""Time, that wears out the trace of deepest anguish, / As the sea smooths the prints made in the sand, / Has past o'er thee in vain.""",2013-06-28 16:22:36 UTC,Act I,"",,Impressions,"",C-H Lion,21270,7492
"LORD RANDOLPH.
That I confess; yet ever must regret
The grief I cannot cure. Would thou wert not
Compos'd of grief and tenderness alone,
But had'st a spark of other passions in thee,
Pride, anger, vanity, the strong desire
Of admiration, dear to woman kind;
These might contend with, and allay thy grief,
As meeting tides and currents smooth our firth.
(Act I, p. 9)",2013-06-28 16:24:22 UTC,"""Would thou wert not / Compos'd of grief and tenderness alone, / But had'st a spark of other passions in thee, / Pride, anger, vanity, the strong desire / Of admiration, dear to woman kind;/ These might contend with, and allay thy grief, / As meeting tides and currents smooth our firth.""",2013-06-28 16:24:22 UTC,Act I,"",,"","",C-H Lion,21271,7492
"EPILOGUE.
An Epilogue I ask'd; but not one word
Our bard will write. He vows, 'tis most absurd
With comic wit to contradict the strain
Of tragedy, and make your sorrows vain.
Sadly he says, that pity is the best,
The noblest passion of the human breast:
For when its sacred streams the heart o'erflow,
In gushes pleasure with the tide of woe;
And when its waves retire, like those of Nile,
They leave behind them such a golden soil,
That there the virtues without culture grow,
There the sweet blossoms of affection blow.
These were his words:---void of delusive art
I felt them; for he spoke them from his heart.
Nor will I now attempt, with witty folly,
To chase away celestial melancholy.",2013-06-28 16:44:56 UTC,"""Sadly he says, that pity is the best, / The noblest passion of the human breast: / For when its sacred streams the heart o'erflow, / In gushes pleasure with the tide of woe; / And when its waves retire, like those of Nile, / They leave behind them such a golden soil, / That there the virtues without culture grow, / There the sweet blossoms of affection blow.""
",2013-06-28 16:44:56 UTC,Epilogue,"",,"","",C-H Lion,21288,7492