updated_at,reviewed_on,context,comments,theme,id,text,provenance,created_at,work_id,metaphor,dictionary
2009-09-14 19:43:22 UTC,2009-01-23,"",•Earliest appearance in Gentleman's Magazine Vol. 61. ii. p. 1131 R.,"",15332,"What, Lonsdale, melted down thy ruthless rage?--
With dæmons once thy spirit dar'd engage,
Spat on the mob that Freedom's ensigns bore,
Smil'd at his storm, and mock'd his thunder-roar;
Fac'd keen Contempt, and Murder's sanguine eye,
And horsewhipp'd whining Mercy to her sky.
How art thou sunk! how wither'd!--Lost, I fear,
Where is the Lowther spirit--tell me where?
Speak, can the ghost of Conscience haunt thy mind?
Hear'st thou the call of Death in ev'ry wind?--
Lo, Resolution to thy terror turns,
And o'er the skeleton of Manhood mourns!
Go, Wonder, to Earth's utmost limits fly,
And, say, if aught like this e'er stretch'd thine eye.
","Searching ""haunt"" and ""mind"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2004-06-08 00:00:00 UTC,5752,"""Speak, can the ghost of Conscience haunt thy mind?""",""
2009-09-14 19:43:24 UTC,,"The Remonstrance; To which is Added an Ode to my Ass; Also the Magpie and Robin, A Tale; An Apology for Kings; and an Address to my Pamphlet","","",15349,"Thy bravery often did I much approve;
Rais'd by that queen of passions, Love.
Whene'er in Love's delicious phrensy crost
By long-ear'd brothers, lo wert thou a host!
Love did thy lion-heart with courage steel!
Quicker than that of Vestris mov'd thy heel:
Here, there, up, down, in, out, how thou didst smite!
And then no alderman could match thy bite!","Searching ""heart"" and ""steel"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-06-11 00:00:00 UTC,5762,"""Love did thy lion-heart with courage steel!""",Metal
2011-09-28 01:32:41 UTC,,"",•Earliest appearance in Gentleman's Magazine Vol. 61. ii. p. 1131 R.,"",15352,"Rouse! and let 'Richard be himself again!'--
Forge, forge anew Oppression's galling chain;
Strip o'er his ears bold Opposition's skin,
And bid with gags the mouth of Freedom grin.
Bid the dark Furies all thy bosom steel,
And Cumberland afresh thine anger feel:
Yes, yes, of Cumberland the comet, blaze,
And, crab-like, roast her rascals with thy rays.
Stretch o'er the shrinking towns thine arm of pow'r,
And, hydra-like, their croaking frogs devour.
Show that thy breath, like Envy's, baleful blows:
A canker be, that kills the lovely rose.
Prove how a rising country can be curst,
And bid with spleen old Nero's spectre burst.","Searching ""bosom"" and ""steel"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2005-06-13 00:00:00 UTC,5752,"""Bid the dark Furies all thy bosom steel, / And Cumberland afresh thine anger feel.""",Metal
2009-09-14 19:43:44 UTC,,"","• In Donald Kerr's ""Satire is Bad Trade"" on the Cardiff Corvey website, the author notes that the buyer Lucraft received a number of Wolcot's titles, including, ""A Pair of Lyric Epistles to Lord Macartney at 1s 3d on 4 September,"" and that, ""on 25 August 1793, 1,150 copies of another printing of A Pair of Lyric Epistles to Lord Macartney were stitched at 1s 6d per hundred""","",15469,"But souls in common are a dreary waste,
By brambles, thistles, barb'rous docks disgrac'd;
That need the ploughshare, harrow, and the fire--
Some souls are caves of filth and spectred gloom,
That want a window and a broom,
To yield them light, and clear the mire.
When honours lift th' unworthy fool on high,
On Fortune how with fierce contempt I scowl!
She hangs a dirty cloud upon the sky,
And with an eagle's pinion imps an ow",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2006-01-18 00:00:00 UTC,5801,"""But souls in common are a dreary waste, / By brambles, thistles, barb'rous docks disgrac'd; / That need the ploughshare, harrow, and the fire--""",""
2014-03-03 17:02:27 UTC,2007-04-26,"","","",16359,"O could I gain by gold those heav'nly charms?
Could gold once give thee to my eager arms,
Lo, into guineas would I coin my heart;
Those would I pour pell-mell into thy lap,
With thee to wake to love, and then to nap,
Then wake again--again to sleep depart.
(cf. p. 36 in 1792 ed.)","Searching ""coin"" and ""heart"" in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO",2005-04-14 00:00:00 UTC,6182,"""Could gold once give thee to my eager arms, / Lo, into guineas would I coin my heart;""",Coinage
2012-01-09 18:48:50 UTC,,"","","",19426,"Hear with what blasphemy this France behaves!
'Rome, I despise thee: all thy popes are knaves;
Thy cardinals and priests the earth encumber--
Avaunt the saints, and all such holy lumber!
Chop off their heads; away the legs and toes:
Away the wonder-working tooth and nose:
Away the wonder-working eyes and tears,
The vile imposture of a thousand years!
Calves' heads, pigs' pettitoes, perform as well,
Raise from the dead, and plagues and devils expel.
Saint Genevieve no longer is divine--
The wise Parisians mock her worm-gnaw'd shrine;
Whose coffin planks that could such awe inspire,
May go to light the kitchen-wench's fire.
Saint Jail, Saint Whip, Saint Guillotine, Saint Rope,
Possess (we think) more virtue than the pope.
My wool-comber, my saddler, and my hatter
No more Saint Blaize, Saint James, Saint Saviour flatter:
My carpenter, my farrier, and my furrier,
My fishmonger, my butcher, baker, currier,
And eke a hundred trades besides, no more
Bow to those marvel-mongers, and adore.
Hang me,' the barber cries, 'if I'm the fool
To trim for nought the Virgin Mary's poll!'
'Burn me,' cries Crispin, 'if I don't refuse
To find the gentlewoman in her shoes!'
'Curse me,' the mercer cries, 'if I give gowns,
To be the laughing-stock of all our towns!'
'Damn me,' the hosier roars, 'if 'tis not shocking,
That I should give the woman's legs a stocking!
'And why,' the linen man exclaims, 'a pox,
Should I, forsooth, be forc'd to find her smocks?
No more shall bumpkins near the altar place
Fair veal and mutton, for th' Almighty's grace;
Grace to increase the loves of bulls and rams,
And make more families of calves and lambs;
No more shall capons too for grace be swapp'd,
By priests ador'd, and in a twinkling snapp'd.
My bumpkins, once such fools, think wiser now,
That God without their aid can bless the cow,
With due fertility the poultry keep,
And kindle love sufficient for the sheep.
On their past folly with amaze they stare,
And mock the solemn mummery of pray'r;
No more on Anthony's once hallow'd feast,
The horse and ass shall travel to be blest;
No more shall Hodge's prong and shovel start,
Boot, saddle, bridle, wheelbarrow, and cart;
No more in Lent shall wiser Frenchmen starve,
While God affords them a good fowl to carve.
Away with fasts--a fool could only hatch 'em--
Frenchmen, eat fowls, wherever you can catch 'em.
Let not the fear of hell your jaws control--
A capon, trust me, never damn'd a soul.
Heav'n kindly sends to man the things man chooses;
And he's an impious blockhead who refuses.
Melt all the bells to cannon with their grace;
And, 'stead of demons, let them Austrians chase.
Away with relics, holy water, oils,
At which Credulity herself recoils!
Lo, Kellerman's and Custine's gun-clad pow'r
Will do more wonders with their iron show'r,
Than all the saints and crosses of the nation,
Since saints and crosses grew a foolish fashion.
Let crucibles and crucifixes join,
And silver saints perform their feats in coin;
Make a good rubber of the Virgin's wig--
Out with her ear-rings, and the dame unrig;
Sell off her gowns and petticoats of gold!
A piece of timber need not fear the cold.
Out with the priests, to lust's wild phrensy fed,
Who put the bridegroom and the bride to bed;
One eye to Heav'n with sanctity applied,
The other leering on the blushful bride;
Who loads her in hot fancy with caresses,
And cuckolds the poor bridegroom as he blesses!
Perish the masses for a burning soul,
That never yet extinguish'd half a coal!
No more for sins let pilgrims visit Rome--
Th' Almighty can forgive a rogue at home.
Strike me that purgatory from our creed--
Heav'n wants not fire to clarify the dead.
Break me old Januarius's bottle;
And let Contempt the old impostor throttle!
A truce to pray'rs for saints in Heav'n to hear--
'Tis idle--since not one of them is there.
Away with benedictions--canting matter!
A horsepond is as good as holy water.
Unveil the nuns, and useful make their charms;
And let their prison be a lover's arms.
I scout your porter Peter and his keys,
That ope to ev'ry rogue a pope shall please.
Avaunt the institutions that enslave!
The man who thought of marriage was a knave;
Rais'd a huge cannon against human bliss,
And spoil'd that first of joys, the rapt'rous kiss;
Delicious novelty from Beauty drove,
And made the gloomy state the tomb of Love;
To discord turning what had charm'd the ear:
Converting Burgundy to sour small-beer.
Thus from his bright domain a sun is hurl'd,
To gild a pin-hole, that should light a world.
Exulting Reason from her bondage springs,
Claims Heav'n's wide range, and spreads her eagle wings;
While Superstition, lodg'd with bats and owls,
With Horror, and the hopeless maniac, howls.'
Thus crieth France!","Searching ""bond"" and ""reason"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2012-01-09 18:48:50 UTC,7157,"""Exulting Reason from her bondage springs, / Claims Heav'n's wide range, and spreads her eagle wings; / While Superstition, lodg'd with bats and owls, / With Horror, and the hopeless maniac, howls.""",Beasts and Fetters
2012-07-03 16:40:35 UTC,,"","","",19845,"In birth the public sees no kind of merit!
Think of the present equalizing spirit!
Amidst the populace how rank it springs!
Nay, from the palaces the Virtues fly,
While boldly entering from their beastly stye,
The vulgar passions rush to pig with kings!
(p. 12)",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2012-07-03 16:40:09 UTC,7287,"""Nay, from the palaces the Virtues fly, / While boldly entering from their beastly stye, / The vulgar passions rush to pig with kings!",Beasts
2012-07-05 13:33:58 UTC,,"","REVISIT: storm is a pun here? War, Weather?","",19861," But let me not thus pond'ring, gaping, stand--
But, lo, I am not at my own command:
Bed, bosom, kiss, embraces, storm my brains,
And, lawless tyrants, bind my will in chains.
O lovely lass! too pow'rful are thy charms,
And fascination dwells within thy arms.
The passions join the fierce invading host;
And I and virtue are o'erwhelm'd and lost--
Passions that in a martingale should move;
Wild horses loosen'd by the hands of Love.
I'm off--alas! unworthy to be seen--
The bard, and Virtue a poor captive queen!
O Lais, should our deeds to sins amount,
Just Heav'n will place them all to thy account.
(pp. 42-3)",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2012-07-05 13:33:58 UTC,7293,"""But let me not thus pond'ring, gaping, stand-- / But, lo, I am not at my own command: / Bed, bosom, kiss, embraces, storm my brains, / And, lawless tyrants, bind my will in chains.""",""
2012-07-05 13:37:34 UTC,,"","OED: ""Horse Riding. A strap or arrangement of straps fastened at one end to the noseband, bit, or reins of a horse and at the other to its girth, in order to prevent it from rearing or throwing its head back, or to strengthen the action of the bit""","",19862," But let me not thus pond'ring, gaping, stand--
But, lo, I am not at my own command:
Bed, bosom, kiss, embraces, storm my brains,
And, lawless tyrants, bind my will in chains.
O lovely lass! too pow'rful are thy charms,
And fascination dwells within thy arms.
The passions join the fierce invading host;
And I and virtue are o'erwhelm'd and lost--
Passions that in a martingale should move;
Wild horses loosen'd by the hands of Love.
I'm off--alas! unworthy to be seen--
The bard, and Virtue a poor captive queen!
O Lais, should our deeds to sins amount,
Just Heav'n will place them all to thy account.
(pp. 42-3)",Searching HDIS (Poetry),2012-07-05 13:37:34 UTC,7293,"""The passions join the fierce invading host; / And I and virtue are o'erwhelm'd and lost-- / Passions that in a martingale should move; / Wild horses loosen'd by the hands of Love.""",Beasts
2014-03-03 18:32:22 UTC,2014-03-03,"Searching ""soul"" and ""window"" in HDIS (Poetry); again ""bosom;"" confirmed in ECCO.","Was assigned to title that goes with first canto. Deleted, reassigned.",Meta-metaphorical,23437,"Now on the band of ladies star'd the cooks,
And seem'd to show hair-ruin in their looks.
Great is the eloquence of eyes indeed--
Much hist'ry in those tell-tale orbs we read!
What though no bigger than a button hole,
Yet what a wondrous window to the soul!
The bosom's joy, and grief, and hope, and fear,
In lively colours are depicted here!
(cf. pp. 4-5 in 1792 edition)","",2014-03-03 18:32:22 UTC,7828,""Much hist'ry in those tell-tale orbs we read! / What though no bigger than a button hole, / Yet what a wondrous window to the soul!""",Rooms