id,comments,provenance,dictionary,created_at,reviewed_on,work_id,theme,context,updated_at,metaphor,text
20503,FIXED: This duplicates (under correct WORK) a previous entry. (was work entry 4726),"Reading; found again searching HDIS (Drama). Lines cited by Samuel Jackson Pratt in the Front Matter of Fire and Frost.
","",2013-06-10 20:42:13 UTC,,7407,"",Night the Fifth,2014-08-18 19:49:43 UTC,"""Though grey our heads, our thoughts and aims are green; / Like damaged clocks, whose hand and bell dissent; / Folly sings six, while Nature points at twelve.""","Tell me, some god! my guardian angel, tell,
What thus infatuates? what enchantment plants
The phantom of an age 'twixt us and Death
Already at the door? He knocks; we hear him,
And yet we will not hear. What mail defends
Our untouch'd hearts? What miracle turns off
The pointed thought, which from a thousand quivers
Is daily darted, and is daily shunn'd?
We stand, as in a battle, throngs on throngs
Around us falling; wounded oft ourselves;
Though bleeding with our wounds, immortal still!
We see Time's furrows on another's brow,
And Death, intrench'd, preparing his assault:
How few themselves in that just mirror see!
Or, seeing, draw their inference as strong!
There Death is certain; doubtful here: he must,
And soon--we may, within an age--expire.
Though grey our heads, our thoughts and aims are green;
Like damaged clocks, whose hand and bell dissent;
Folly sings six, while Nature points at twelve.
(ll. 616-635, pp. 132-3 in CUP edition)"
20504,"",Reading,"",2013-06-10 20:42:52 UTC,,7407,"",Night the Fifth,2013-06-10 20:42:52 UTC,"""That thought is the machine, / The grand machine that heaves us from the dust, / And rears us into men!""","Dost ask, Lorenzo, why so warmly press'd,
By repetition hammer'd on thine ear,
The thought of Death? That thought is the machine,
The grand machine that heaves us from the dust,
And rears us into men! That thought plied home
Will soon reduce the ghastly precipice
O'erhanging hell, will soften the descent,
And gently slope our passage to the grave.
How warmly to be wish'd! What heart of flesh
Would trifle with tremendous, dare extremes,
Yawn o'er the fate of infinite? What hand,
Beyond the blackest brand of censure bold,
(To speak a language too well known to thee,)
Would at a moment give its all to chance,
And stamp the die for an eternity?
(ll. 682-692, pp. 134-5 in CUP edition)"
22652,"",Reading,"",2013-09-02 03:37:53 UTC,,7665,"",Night the Eighth,2013-09-02 03:37:53 UTC,"""There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse, / A dance of spirits, a mere froth of joy, / Our thoughtless Agitation's idle child, / That mantles high, that sparkles, and expires, / Leaving the soul more vapid than before; / An animal ovation! such as holds / No commerce with our reason, but subsists / On juices, through the well-toned tubes well-strain'd; / A nice machine! scarce ever tuned aright; / And when it jars--thy Sirens sing no more, / Thy dance is done; the demi-god is thrown / (Short apotheosis!) beneath the man, / In coward gloom immersed, or fell despair.""","How ruinous the rock I warn thee shun,
Where Sirens sit to sing thee to thy fate!
A joy in which our reason bears no part
Is but a sorrow tickling ere it stings.
Let not the cooings of the World allure thee;
Which of her lovers ever found her true?
Happy, of this bad World who little know!--
And yet we much must know her to be safe.
To know the World, not love her, is thy point;
She gives but little, nor that little long.
There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse,
A dance of spirits, a mere froth of joy,
Our thoughtless Agitation's idle child,
That mantles high, that sparkles, and expires,
Leaving the soul more vapid than before;
An animal ovation! such as holds
No commerce with our reason, but subsists
On juices, through the well-toned tubes well-strain'd;
A nice machine! scarce ever tuned aright;
And when it jars--thy Sirens sing no more,
Thy dance is done; the demi-god is thrown
(Short apotheosis!) beneath the man,
In coward gloom immersed, or fell despair.
(pp. 181-2, ll. 1268-90)"