work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
3258,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2005-02-06 00:00:00 UTC," Whate'er you write of pleasant or sublime,
Always let sense accompany your rhyme.
Falsely they seem each other to oppose;
Rhyme must be made with Reason's laws to close;
And when to conquer her you bend your force,
The mind will triumph in the noble course.
To Reason's yoke she quickly will incline,
Which, far from hurting, renders her divine;
But if neglected, will as easily stray,
And master Reason, which she should obey.
Love Reason, then; and let whate'er you write
Borrow from her its beauty, force, and light.
Most writers mounted on a resty muse,
Extravagant and senseless objects chuse;
They think they err, if in their verse they fall
On any thought that's plain or natural.
Fly this excess; and let Italians be
Vain authors of false glittering poetry.
All ought to aim at sense; but most in vain
Strive the hard pass and slippery path to gain;
You drown, if to the right or left you stray;
Reason to go has often but one way.
Sometimes an author, fond of his own thought,
Pursues its object till it's overwrought:
If he describes a house, he shows the face,
And after walks you round from place to place;
Here is a vista, there the doors unfold,
Balconies here are ballustred with gold;
Then counts the rounds and ovals in the halls,
""The festoons, friezes, and the astragals:""
Tired with his tedious pomp, away I run,
And skip o'er twenty pages, to be gone.
Of such descriptions the vain folly see,
And shun their barren superfluity.
All that is needless carefully avoid;
The mind once satisfied is quickly cloyed:
He cannot write, who knows not to give o'er;
To mend one fault, he makes a hundred more:
A verse was weak, you turn it much too strong,
And grow obscure for fear you should be long.
Some are not gaudy, but are flat and dry;
Not to be low, another soars too high.
Would you of every one deserve the praise?
In writing vary your discourse and phrase;
A frozen style, that neither ebbs nor flows,
Instead of pleasing, makes us gape and dose.
Those tedious authors are esteemed by none
Who tire us, humming the same heavy tone.
Happy who in his verse can gently steer,
From grave to light; from pleasant to severe:
His works will be admired wherever found,
And oft with buyers will be compassed round.
In all you write, be neither low nor vile;
The meanest theme may have a proper style.",2011-06-27,8514,"","""Falsely they [sense and rhyme] seem each other to oppose; / Rhyme must be made with Reason's laws to close; / And when to conquer her you bend your force, / The mind will triumph in the noble course.""",Court,2011-06-28 02:17:38 UTC,""
3258,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2005-02-06 00:00:00 UTC,"Whate'er you write of pleasant or sublime,
Always let sense accompany your rhyme.
Falsely they seem each other to oppose;
Rhyme must be made with Reason's laws to close;
And when to conquer her you bend your force,
The mind will triumph in the noble course.
To Reason's yoke she quickly will incline,
Which, far from hurting, renders her divine;
But if neglected, will as easily stray,
And master Reason, which she should obey.
Love Reason, then; and let whate'er you write
Borrow from her its beauty, force, and light.
Most writers mounted on a resty muse,
Extravagant and senseless objects chuse;
They think they err, if in their verse they fall
On any thought that's plain or natural.
Fly this excess; and let Italians be
Vain authors of false glittering poetry.
All ought to aim at sense; but most in vain
Strive the hard pass and slippery path to gain;
You drown, if to the right or left you stray;
Reason to go has often but one way.
Sometimes an author, fond of his own thought,
Pursues its object till it's overwrought:
If he describes a house, he shows the face,
And after walks you round from place to place;
Here is a vista, there the doors unfold,
Balconies here are ballustred with gold;
Then counts the rounds and ovals in the halls,
""The festoons, friezes, and the astragals:""
Tired with his tedious pomp, away I run,
And skip o'er twenty pages, to be gone.
Of such descriptions the vain folly see,
And shun their barren superfluity.
All that is needless carefully avoid;
The mind once satisfied is quickly cloyed:
He cannot write, who knows not to give o'er;
To mend one fault, he makes a hundred more:
A verse was weak, you turn it much too strong,
And grow obscure for fear you should be long.
Some are not gaudy, but are flat and dry;
Not to be low, another soars too high.
Would you of every one deserve the praise?
In writing vary your discourse and phrase;
A frozen style, that neither ebbs nor flows,
Instead of pleasing, makes us gape and dose.
Those tedious authors are esteemed by none
Who tire us, humming the same heavy tone.
Happy who in his verse can gently steer,
From grave to light; from pleasant to severe:
His works will be admired wherever found,
And oft with buyers will be compassed round.
In all you write, be neither low nor vile;
The meanest theme may have a proper style.
",,8515,"","""To Reason's yoke she quickly will incline, / Which, far from hurting, renders her divine; / But if neglected, will as easily stray, / And master Reason, which she should obey.""","",2011-06-27 21:23:31 UTC,""
3618,"","Searching ""mind"" and ""empire"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2004-08-07 00:00:00 UTC,"Is then the Birth, and Title of a King,
(Ye Gods, from whom Kings, sprung) so vain a thing;
That, with one Shock of Fortune onely, I
Must fall so low, into Captivity,
As to become their Slave to whom, of late,
I was a Terrour? Are the Laws of Fate
Of so great Force, that whatsoe're's Design'd
By them, by all must be obey'd? must binde
The Deities themselves? Alass! if so,
Why do poor Mortals to their Temples go,
And vainly crave that Aid, which cannot be
Confirm'd, unless the Fates the same decree?
How oft did I, before I took in hand
This War, their Counsel, and Consent demand?
As oft, their Tripods what I ask'd allow'd.
And I, as often, to their Honour vow'd
Dardanian Spoils. But, since I am or'ethrown,
'Tis not my Crime they want them, but their own?
From them it was, that Sophonisba's Charms
Prevail'd, and Head-long thrust me into Arms:
Against that Faith, which I to Rome, before,
Religiously had sworn. I would no more
Of this complain, had we together dy'd.
Or, had not Masanissa both my Bride,
My Throne, and Crown enjoy'd. Ye Gods, You were
If not Unjust in this, at least, Severe.
Else wherefore did I not, when Hostile Fire
Had seiz'd my Camp, within those Flames expire?
Then might I to the Shades below have gone,
At least, a King. Then I had onely known
The Fate of being conquer'd, not the Shame:
Nor then had Rome recorded Syphax Name
Among her Captives. Nor, then, had these Hands,
That shook a Scepter o're so many Lands,
Been thus bound up in Chains. But, why do I
Complain of Life, and not resolve to Dy?
What? though they study to preserve me still,
A living Trophy here; yet is my Will
Free, as the Conquerour's: and Rome shall finde,
I still retain the Empire of my Minde,
That stands above her reach, where I alone
Will rule, and scorn to live, but on a Throne.
This said; a sudden Silence seiz'd his Soul:
And, as deep Waters in still Chanels roul,
And, murm'ring less, into the Ocean flow;
So the Resentments of his Griefs, that grow
Too great to be express'd, through ev'ry part,
Like a swift Fever, runs, till his great Heart,
Resolv'd to bear that Load no more, deny'd
Nature her common Food, and, starv'd, He dy'd.
And, as a Lion, that hath long in Blood
Maintain'd his Empire in some Libyan Wood,
Surpriz'd at last in Toils, and kept to be
The Pastime of the Cirque, raging to see
His Native Freedom lost, doth, roaring, round
His Prison walke, and (with that dreadful Sound,
Was wont all other Beasts to Terrify,
And, with their Flocks, make trembling Sheepherds fly)
Shakes all about. But, when he findes, at length,
That nor his Rage prevails, nor yet his Strength
Can his Escape procure; all proffer'd Food
He growling flies, forgets all thirst of Blood,
And, in Disdain of his Captivity,
Resolves in sullen Silence there to dy.
So that great King, to whom, not long before,
Rich Gems were from the Erythræan Shore,
For Tribute brought: to whom, with Lions Tame,
And towred Elephants, Getulians came,
And, prostrate at his Feet, Obedience pay'd:
At first in Love, then War, a Captive made,
In a dark Dungeon dy'd, and the sole Fame,
That he 'gainst Scipio fought, preserves his Name.",,9391,•Translated from Silius Italicus.,"""[Y]et is my Will / Free, as the Conquerour's: and Rome shall finde, / I still retain the Empire of my Minde, / That stands above her reach, where I alone / Will rule, and scorn to live, but on a Throne.""",Empire,2012-01-09 16:42:21 UTC,Death of Hannibal
3618,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2006-01-18 00:00:00 UTC,"This said, he silent sate, as custom was:
The Senate streight proceed their Votes to pass,
While Hanno urgeth to restore the Spoils
Of War, and add's the Authour of those Broils.
With that the Fathers, leaping from their Seats,
Amazd, as if the Fo were at the Gates
O'th' Temple, Pray the Gods, that it may be
A Fatal Omen unto Italy.
Fabius, perceiving that their thoughts were far
From Peace, and, treacherously, enclin'd to War,
No longer able to conceal his Ire,
With speed another Council doth require:
And to th'assembled Fathers doth Declare,
That in his Bosom he brought Peace, or War,
Demands their Choice, that, Him they would no more
Detain, with dubious Answers, as before.
But, when no Choice of either they exprest,
(As if he'd powr'd whole Armies from his Breast,)
Take then a War (said He) (with that let's fall
His folded Garment) take a War, which shall
To Lybia, like the former, fatall be,
In its Events. This said, incensed, He
The Temple, and the City quit's, and home
Returns, a Messenger of War to Rome.
While such at Carthage was the State of things:
Fierce Hannibal, enrich'd with Trophies, brings
Again his Arms before Sagunthus Walls,
And, to his Aid, those many Nations calls,
Whose Faith to Rome was shaken by the Fear
Of dubious War; while they continued there,
The People, that inhabited the Coast,
Presents (the best Callaick Art could boast)
Brought to the General. A shining Shield,
That Beams, like Lightning terrible, did yield.
An Helmet on whose rising Crest, a Plume
Did tremble, and in Whiteness overcome
The Alpine Snow. With them a Sword, and Spear
Which afterwards to thousands Fatall were:
With treble Chains of Gold, a Coat of Mail,
Studded, 'gainst which no Weapon could prevail.
These made of Brass, and harder Steel, inlay'd
With Tagus Wealth, triumphing, he survey'd,
And in the Carved Works was pleas'd to see
His Nations happy Birth, and History.
Dido, the first Foundation there did lay,
Of Carthage: and, her Navy sent away,
The Work begun, th'industrious Youth pursu'd.
Some with long Piles, and Banks, the Port include:
To others Reverend Bitias prepares
Their Houses Platforms, all in equal shares.
And, as they turned up the Fertile Ground,
A Warlike Horses Head, by chance, they found.
The Omen, with an universal Shout
Of Joy, they all appeared to Salute.
Among these Figures sad Æneas stands,
Wrack'd on her Coasts, and with extended Hands,
Deprived of his Fleet, and Friends, is seen
To crave Assistance. Him th'unhappy Queen
Views with an earnest Eye, and Entertains
With Smiles: for Love within her Bosom Reigns.
Then they Describ'd the Cave, and secret Rites,
The Lovers us'd to warrant their Delights.
Mean while the Cries of Men, and Dogs, appear
To Strike the Marble Sky; till suddain Fear,
Of an Impetuous Storm, the Hunters all
Constrain'd, for Shelter, into Woods to fall.
Not far from these, upon the Empty Shore,
Eliza Weeps, and did, in Vain, implore
The Trojan-Fleet's return, that now to Sea
Had hois'd up Sails, and bore her Love away.
Then on a lofty Pile, at last, She stands,
Wounded; and to the Tyrians commands
Revenging Wars: the Trojan Prince, the while,
Beholding, from the Sea, the flaming Pile,
To the propitious Fates his Sails doth spread,
Resolv'd to Follow, wheresoe're they Lead.
Apart from these, at Stygian Altars, stood
Young Hannibal (a Childe) who secret Blood
Offer'd, with the infernal Priest; and there
The War against Æneas Race did swear.
But Old Amilcar's Image seem'd to be
Alive, and Triumph over Sicily:
You'd think he breath'd forth War; within his Eys
A Flame of Terrour, with grim Aspect, lies.
Upon the left Side of the Shield, a Band
Of Spartans, with their ragged Ensigns, stand:
Whom Bold Xantippus, as a Conqu'rour, led,
From fair Amycle, fam'd by Læda's Bed.
Near these, hung Regulus, their sad Renown,
Upon a Cross; and, to the trembling Town,
Faith's great Example was. A joyfull Face
Of Things adorns the rest: where some the Chace
Of Beasts pursue, and carved Houses shine.
Not far remote from them, with parched Skin,
The black-Moor's Sister, in an horrid Dress,
Tames, with her Country's Speech, a Lyoness.
Then, through the Fields the wandring Shepherd moves
Free without Stop, through unforbidden Groves:
Near them his Dart, and (whom he Cydon names)
His barking Dog, his Cottage, and hid Flames
In Veins of Flint; then, lively, they exprest
His Pipe, familiar to the lab'ring Beast.
Then on a lofty Hill Sagunthus stands,
And by unnumbred Nations, and Bands
Of Fighting men, Besieged-round appears,
And to be push'd at, by their trembling Spears.
About the Borders, rich Iberus seems
To make the Circle up, with winding Streams:
Over whose Banks fierce Hannibal, from far,
Calls Africk-People to the Romane War.
On his broad Shoulders, as he, smiling, tries
These wealthy Presents; proudly, thus, he cries.",,9403,•Translated from Silius Italicus.
,"""Him th'unhappy Queen / Views with an earnest Eye, and Entertains / With Smiles: for Love within her Bosom Reigns.""","",2009-09-14 19:34:11 UTC,""
4169,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry),2005-08-16 00:00:00 UTC,"Why from my Native Station am I sent
A Captive to this narrow Tenement?
How oft wou'd I attempt a shameful Flight,
In Fire or Water bid the World good Night?
How oft have I their happy Fate admir'd,
Who by the Sword or Poison have expir'd?
But to gain Heav'n, we must Heav'ns leisure stay,
Such rash Attempters have mistook the way.
As only Heav'n our Beings did bestow,
'Tis Heav'ns sole right to countermand them too:
And when to take what That first gave we strive,
We impiously encroach on God's Prerogative;
And on our Souls by this unlawful Act,
In breaking Pris'n we a new Guilt contract:
While th'impious Course we take to set us free,
Betrays us to a greater Slavery.
Had I some winding Lab'rinth for my Jail,
I then might hope for Freedom to prevail:
But while imbody'd in this Flesh I lie,
Heav'n must be the Deliverer, not I.
Let the mistaken Wretch his Pris'n accuse,
Which for his Flight did no kind Means refuse.
Wou'd some kind Chink one heavenly Ray admit
To bless my Eyes, how wou'd I honour it?
But while confin'd to this dark Cell I lie,
My captive Soul can't reach its native Sky,
Here, even my Will's a slave to Passions made,
Passions which have its Liberty betray'd.
When piously it is inclin'd to good,
'Tis by repugnant Passions still withstood.
Thus Israel in th'Ægyptian Bondage far'd,
While from the Service of their God debarr'd;
When to his Worship they desir'd to go,
The Tyrant Phar'oh always answer'd, No.
Oh my dear God! visit this humble Cell,
And see within what narrow Walls I dwell.
But if the Locks, and Bars, and Grates afright,
Command them all to open at thy sight.
Command them, Lord, to set thy Servant free;
Nor will this Deed without Example be:
Angels have left their Thrones and Bliss above,
To ransom those whom thou art pleas'd to Love:
Thus Peter did his op'ning Prison view,
Yet scarce believ'd the Miracle was true.
But no such Favour is indulg'd to me,
I want (alas!) such happy Liberty.
Come, my dear Lord! unlock my Prison Gate,
And let my Soul tow'rd Heav'n expatiate:
In triumph tho' thy Slave conducted be,
I'll bless the Chains that bind me close to Thee.
To Thee my Hands are thro' the Gates addrest;
O that I cou'd but follow with the rest!
The captive Bird about its Cage will fly,
And the least way for its Escape espy,
And with its Bill gnaws thro' the Twiggy Grate
A secret Passage to its first free State.
Can'st thou, my God! be deaf to all my Cries,
And more obdurate than my Prison is?
Nor for my Self, but Thee do I complain,
Thy sacred Praise, which I wou'd Sing, in vain;
For here (alas!) I cannot once rejoyce,
Nor touch my Strings, nor raise my tuneful Voice.
For Birds confin'd, to rage convert their Notes,
Or sullen grown, lock up their silent Throats.
Come then, my God, unlock my Prison-gate,
And let my Soul tow'rds Heaven Expatiate!
There my loud Voice in joyful Notes I'll raise,
And sing Eternal Anthems to thy Praise.
But if thou wilt not this Request allow,
At thy own Glory thou must envious grow.",,10796,•Cross-reference: translation from Augustine's Soliloquies.,"""Here, even my Will's a slave to Passions made, / Passions which have its Liberty betray'd.""","",2009-09-14 19:35:17 UTC,V.
6098,"","Searching ""empire"" and ""heart"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2004-08-22 00:00:00 UTC," But wretched thou, whoe'er my rival art,
That fondly boasts an empire o'er her heart;
Thou that enjoy'st the fair inconstant prize,
And vainly triumph'st with my victories;
Unenvy'd now, o'er all her beauties rove,
Enjoy thy ruin, and Neæra's love:
Though wealth and honours grace thy nobler birth,
To bribe her love, and fix a wandering faith;
Though every grace and every virtue join,
T' enrich thy mind, and make thy form divine:
Yet, blest with endless charms, too soon you'll prove
The treacheries of false Neæra's love.
Lost and abandon'd by th' ungrateful fair,
Like me you'll love, be injur'd and despair.
When left th' unhappy object of her scorn,
Then shall I smile to see the victor mourn,
Laugh at thy fate, and triumph in my turn.
(cf. pp. 60-1 in 1716 Miscellanies)",2012-04-03,16127,"","""But wretched thou, whoe'er my rival art, / That fondly boasts an empire o'er her heart.""",Empire,2014-03-03 21:21:04 UTC,""
4169,"","Searching ""mind"" and ""chain"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2011-06-29 03:04:34 UTC,"O! that some usual Labour were injoyn'd,
And not the Tyrant Vice enslav'd my mind!
No weight of Chains cou'd grieve my captive Hands,
Like the loath'd Drudg'ry of its base Commands;
By this a double mis'ry I contract,
Ev'n I condemn the hated Ills I act.
Yet of my Chains I'm not so weary grown,
But that I still am putting others on.
For Sin has always this attending Curse,
To back the first Transgression with a worse:
This to my sorrow, I too often find!
Yet no Experience warns my heedless mind.
Thus Vice and Virtue do my Soul divide,
Like a Ship tost between the Wind and Tide.
Pleasure, the Bawd to Vice, here draws me in,
There, Grief, its Follow'r, pulls me back from Sin:
Yet Pleasure oft comes Conqueror from the Field,
Whilst I to Vice, inglorious Homage yield.
Tho' Grief does still with Vice in triumph ride,
Plac'd like a Slave by that great Conqu'ror's side.
Thus Vice and Virtue have alternate sway,
While I, with endless labour, Both obey:
And to increase my pains, as if too small,
Thy heavy hand comes in the rear of all,
And with deep piercing strokes corrects me more,
For what was punish'd in it self before.
Thus guilty Souls in Hell are scourg'd for Sin;
Their never-ending Pains thus still begin.",,18840,"","""O! that some usual Labour were injoyn'd, / And not the Tyrant Vice enslav'd my mind! / No weight of Chains cou'd grieve my captive Hands, / Like the loath'd Drudg'ry of its base Commands.""",Fetters,2011-06-29 03:04:57 UTC,""
3618,"","Searching ""bond"" and ""thought"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2012-01-09 16:45:56 UTC,"Here all are busy to express their Care
To entertain Him, and to such, as were
Inquisitive to know, what did invite
Him thither, cunning, He, reply'd: I might
(Indeed) have gone to Tyre another Way;
But none so near I judg, since I this Day
Must spend in Sacrifice, to th'Pow'rs above,
That what I there must prosecute, may prove
Propitious to the State, which thither Me
Hath sent, and since, within this Island, We
Few Trees for Shelter finde, let Me entreat
Your Sails, this Day, to shroud Us from the Heat
O'th'scorching Sun. No sooner said, but all
Their Hands employ; some from the Masts let fall
The Sails; some lift them with their Yards to Land,
On which extended streight, for Tents, they stand.
And now whatever Rare the Isle affords,
Makes up the Feast, and round the hast'ned Boards
Lyæus flows: and first, To Liberty
A Bowl is crown'd, which all as greedily
Quaff off, as if in it they thought to finde
Their Wish, and Sense of Bondage from the Minde
Expel. And, as the sparkling Liquour warms
Their Blood, each man, as if he were in Arms,
Defies the Pow'r of Rome; now scorns to bear
That Yoak, which, in a Sober mind, his Fear
Would prompt him to imbrace, and what before
He durst not Think, he now dares Act, and more.
All former Fears are banish'd: This exclaims
'Gainst Hanno's Pride; and That his Countrey blames
For want of Courage, bids the Prince again
Attempt to take away that Fatal Stain,
For which, as in th'inflaming Juice he steeps
His Brains, he in a Drunken Pity weeps.
",,19412,"","""To Liberty / A Bowl is crown'd, which all as greedily / Quaff off, as if in it they thought to finde / Their Wish, and Sense of Bondage from the Minde / Expel.""",Fetters,2012-01-09 16:45:56 UTC,""
7537,"",Browsing in EEBO,2013-07-11 15:10:40 UTC,"CORNUTUS
Free, what and fetter'd with so many Chains?
Can'st thou no other Master understand·
Than him that freed thee, by the Praetor's Wand?
Shou'd he, who was thy Lord, command thee now,
With a harsh Voice, and supercilious Brow,
To servile Duties, thou wou'd'st fear no more·
The Gallows and the Whip are out of door.
But if thy Passions lord it in thy Breast,
Art thou not still a Slave, and still opprest.
(p. 67, ll. 180-8)",,21652,"","""But if thy Passions lord it in thy Breast, / Art thou not still a Slave, and still opprest.""",Fetters,2013-07-11 15:10:40 UTC,""
7952,"",Reading; following up on passage in Henry Baker's Medulla.,2014-07-01 20:31:38 UTC,"When God his Mind in meaner things declares,
Should he neglect the Glory of the Stars?
Besides, the World is eager to be known,
Our search provoking still; for rouling on
It shews us all its parts, displays its Light,
And constantly intrudes upon our Sight:
His Face unvail'd, God doth so plainly shew,
That if we will but look, we needs must know:
He draws our Eyes, nor doth our search forbid;
What Powers he hides not, he would not have hid:
Then who can think it impiously bold
To search what we're encourag'd to behold?
Nor think thy force too small, too weak thy Mind
Because to Clay unequally confin'd;
Its Power is wondrous Great; how small a Mass
Of Gold or Gems, exceeds vast Heaps of Brass?
How little is the Apple of the Eye?
And yet at once, he takes in half the Sky:
Nor dreads the disproportion to the Sense,
The Organ small, the Object is immense:
And from the narrow limits of the Heart,
The Active Soul doth vigorous Life impart
To all the Limbs, its Sway the Members own,
Wide is its Empire from its petty Throne.
Man know thy Powers, and not observe thy Size,
Thy noble Power in piercing Reason lies,
And Reason conquers all, and rules the Skies.
Nor must you vainly doubt that Man's allow'd
To know Heaven's mind, since Man can make a God:
A Star new rais'd, the Skie enlarg'd contains,
And Heaven must still encrease whilst Caesar Reigns.
(Book IV, p. 42)",,24120,"","""And from the narrow limits of the Heart, / The Active Soul doth vigorous Life impart / To all the Limbs, its Sway the Members own, / Wide is its Empire from its petty Throne.""",Empire,2014-07-01 20:31:38 UTC,""