work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
6197,"","Searching ""engrav"" and ""heart"" in HDIS (Drama)",2005-03-09 00:00:00 UTC,"COGNOVIT.
Talk not of sincerity, madam. If I could rip up my heart and lay it at your feet, you would read engrav'd on it in capital letters your own adorable name. Thus, madam, let me fall at your feet and swear--",,16386,•INTEREST,"""If I could rip up my heart and lay it at your feet, you would read engrav'd on it in capital letters your own adorable name""","",2009-09-14 19:46:42 UTC,"Act I, scene iv"
6216,"","Searching ""idea"" and ""crowd"" in HDIS (Drama)",2006-03-13 00:00:00 UTC,"TREA.
Writing! O, I should have written thousands of pamphlets by this time, if it wasn't that--that the first sentence is so damn'd hard to get over; but, unluckily, I have such a profusion of ideas, that, when I sit down to write, there is so much crowding and jostling among them, that, curse me, your Majesty, if I know which to take first.",,16476,"","""Writing! O, I should have written thousands of pamphlets by this time, if it wasn't that--that the first sentence is so damn'd hard to get over; but, unluckily, I have such a profusion of ideas, that, when I sit down to write, there is so much crowding and jostling among them, that, curse me, your Majesty, if I know which to take first.""",Inhabitants,2009-09-14 19:46:59 UTC,"Act I, scene ii"
6226,"","Searching ""heart"" and ""iron"" in HDIS (Drama)",2005-06-08 00:00:00 UTC,"MOU.
Yes, fellow-soldier, I fear heaven, and that rids me of every other fear.
[takes off from his girdle his keys--he throws them down.]
Good bye, I wish you a wiser master--a jailor' heart should be like you--iron.",,16501,"","""Good bye, I wish you a wiser master--a jailor' heart should be like you--iron.""","",2009-09-14 19:47:04 UTC,"Act III, scene iii"
7056,"","Searching ""soul"" and ""chain"" in HDIS (Drama)",2011-07-30 20:58:44 UTC,"GAMBIA
England! shall I behold thee? Talk of fabled land, or magic power! But what land, that poet ever sung, or enchanter swayed, can equal that, which, when the slave's foot touches, he becomes free--his prisoned soul starts forth, his swelling nerves burst the chain that enthrall'd him, and, in his own strength he stands, as the rock he treads on, majestic and secure.
(III.v)",,19075,"","""But what land, that poet ever sung, or enchanter swayed, can equal that, which, when the slave's foot touches, he becomes free--his prisoned soul starts forth, his swelling nerves burst the chain that enthrall'd him, and, in his own strength he stands, as the rock he treads on, majestic and secure.""",Fetters,2011-07-30 20:58:44 UTC,"Act III, scene v"
7120,"",Reading,2011-10-25 20:49:09 UTC,"One word is due in candor to the degree in which the study of contemporary writings may have tinged my composition, for such has been a topic of censure with regard to poems far more popular, and indeed more deservedly popular, than mine. It is impossible that any one, who inhabits the same age with such writers as those who stand in the foremost ranks of our own, can conscientiously assure himself that his language and tone of thought may not have been modified by the study of the productions of those extraordinary intellects. It is true that, not the spirit of their genius, but the forms in which it has manifested itself, are due less to the peculiarities of their own minds than to the peculiarity of the moral and intellectual condition of the minds among which they have been produced. Thus a number of writers possess the form, whilst they want the spirit of those whom, it is alleged, they imitate; because the former is the endowment of the age in which they live, and the latter must be the uncommunicated lightning of their own mind.
(pp. x-xi)
",,19282,"","""Thus a number of writers possess the form, whilst they want the spirit of those whom, it is alleged, they imitate; because the former is the endowment of the age in which they live, and the latter must be the uncommunicated lightning of their own mind.""","",2011-10-25 20:49:09 UTC,Preface
7120,"",Reading,2011-10-25 20:50:56 UTC,"The peculiar style of intense and comprehensive imagery which distinguishes the modern literature of England has not been, as a general power, the product of the imitation of any particular writer. The mass of capabilities remains at every period materially the same; the circumstances which awaken it to action perpetually change. If England were divided into forty republics, each equal in population and extent to Athens, there is no reason to suppose but that, under institutions not more perfect than those of Athens, each would produce philosophers and poets equal to those who (if we except Shakespeare) have never been surpassed. We owe the great writers of the golden age of our literature to that fervid awakening of the public mind which shook to dust the oldest and most oppressive form of the Christian religion. We owe Milton to the progress and development of the same spirit: the sacred Milton was, let it ever be remembered, a republican and a bold inquirer into morals and religion. The great writers of our own age are, we have reason to suppose, the companions and forerunners of some unimagined change in our social condition or the opinions which cement it. The cloud of mind is discharging its collected lightning, and the equilibrium between institutions and opinions is now restoring or is about to be restored.
(pp. xi-xii)",,19283,"","""The cloud of mind is discharging its collected lightning, and the equilibrium between institutions and opinions is now restoring or is about to be restored.""","",2011-10-25 20:50:56 UTC,Preface
7120,"",Reading,2011-10-25 20:51:41 UTC,"As to imitation, poetry is a mimetic art. It creates, but it creates by combination and representation. Poetical abstractions are beautiful and new, not because the portions of which they are composed had no previous existence in the mind of man or in Nature, but because the whole produced by their combination has some intelligible and beautiful analogy with those sources of emotion and thought and with the contemporary condition of them. One great poet is a masterpiece of Nature which another not only ought to study but must study. He might as wisely and as easily determine that his mind should no longer be the mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe as exclude from his contemplation the beautiful which exists in the writings of a great contemporary. The pretence of doing it would be a presumption in any but the greatest; the effect, even in him, would be strained, unnatural and ineffectual. A poet is the combined product of such internal powers as modify the nature of others, and of such external influences as excite and sustain these powers; he is not one, but both. Every man's mind is, in this respect, modified by all the objects of Nature and art; by every word and every suggestion which he ever admitted to act upon his consciousness; it is the mirror upon which all forms are reflected and in which they compose one form. Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age. From this subjection the loftiest do not escape. There is a similarity between Homer and Hesiod, between Æschylus and Euripides, between Virgil and Horace, between Dante and Petrarch, between Shakespeare and Fletcher, between Dryden and Pope; each has a generic resemblance under which their specific distinctions are arranged. If this similarity be the result of imitation, I am willing to confess that I have imitated.
(xii-xiii)
",,19284,"","""He might as wisely and as easily determine that his mind should no longer be the mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe as exclude from his contemplation the beautiful which exists in the writings of a great contemporary.""","",2011-10-25 20:51:41 UTC,Preface
7120,"",Reading,2011-10-25 20:52:50 UTC,"As to imitation, poetry is a mimetic art. It creates, but it creates by combination and representation. Poetical abstractions are beautiful and new, not because the portions of which they are composed had no previous existence in the mind of man or in Nature, but because the whole produced by their combination has some intelligible and beautiful analogy with those sources of emotion and thought and with the contemporary condition of them. One great poet is a masterpiece of Nature which another not only ought to study but must study. He might as wisely and as easily determine that his mind should no longer be the mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe as exclude from his contemplation the beautiful which exists in the writings of a great contemporary. The pretence of doing it would be a presumption in any but the greatest; the effect, even in him, would be strained, unnatural and ineffectual. A poet is the combined product of such internal powers as modify the nature of others, and of such external influences as excite and sustain these powers; he is not one, but both. Every man's mind is, in this respect, modified by all the objects of Nature and art; by every word and every suggestion which he ever admitted to act upon his consciousness; it is the mirror upon which all forms are reflected and in which they compose one form. Poets, not otherwise than philosophers, painters, sculptors and musicians, are, in one sense, the creators, and, in another, the creations, of their age. From this subjection the loftiest do not escape. There is a similarity between Homer and Hesiod, between Æschylus and Euripides, between Virgil and Horace, between Dante and Petrarch, between Shakespeare and Fletcher, between Dryden and Pope; each has a generic resemblance under which their specific distinctions are arranged. If this similarity be the result of imitation, I am willing to confess that I have imitated.
(xii-xiii)",,19285,"","""Every man's mind is, in this respect, modified by all the objects of Nature and art; by every word and every suggestion which he ever admitted to act upon his consciousness; it is the mirror upon which all forms are reflected and in which they compose one form.""","",2011-10-25 20:52:50 UTC,Preface
7120,"",Reading,2011-10-25 20:54:53 UTC,"PROMETHEUS
[...]
Disdain! Ah no! I pity thee. What ruin
Will hunt thee undefended through wide Heaven!
How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror,
Gape like a hell within! I speak in grief,
Not exultation, for I hate no more,
As then ere misery made me wise. The curse
Once breathed on thee I would recall. Ye Mountains,
Whose many-voicèd Echoes, through the mist
Of cataracts, flung the thunder of that spell!
Ye icy Springs, stagnant with wrinkling frost,
Which vibrated to hear me, and then crept
Shuddering through India! Thou serenest Air,
Through which the Sun walks burning without beams!
And ye swift Whirlwinds, who on poisèd wings
Hung mute and moveless o'er yon hushed abyss,
As thunder, louder than your own, made rock
The orbèd world! If then my words had power,
Though I am changed so that aught evil wish
Is dead within; although no memory be
Of what is hate, let them not lose it now!
What was that curse? for ye all heard me speak.
(I, ll. 53-73)",,19286,"","""How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror, / Gape like a hell within!""","",2011-10-25 20:54:53 UTC,Act I
7120,"",Reading,2011-10-25 20:56:20 UTC,"PROMETHEUS
Obscurely through my brain, like shadows dim,
Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick. I feel
Faint, like one mingled in entwining love;
Yet 'tis not pleasure.
(I, ll. 146-149)",,19287,"","""Obscurely through my brain, like shadows dim, / Sweep awful thoughts, rapid and thick.""","",2011-10-25 20:56:20 UTC,Act I