work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
5436,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO,2006-03-13 00:00:00 UTC," Know, lovely virgin, thy deluding art
Hath lodg'd a thousand scorpions in my breast:
O say what happier rival wins thy heart,
Is Selim there no more a welcome guest?
(cf. p. 27 in 1773 ed.)",,14547,"Poem appears again in Works (1816) as ""Elegy IV.""","""Know, lovely virgin, thy deluding art / Hath lodg'd a thousand scorpions in my breast:""",Animals,2014-03-03 16:56:31 UTC,""
5438,Mind's Eye,"Searching ""mind"" and ""eye"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2006-04-18 00:00:00 UTC," There, whilst the vault resounds my plaintive sigh,
In deathful echoes, shall Despondence bring
The saddest visions on the mind's wan eye,
That ever wav'd on Fancy's blackest wing.",,14549,•I've included twice: Eye and Wing,"""There, whilst the vault resounds my plaintive sigh, / In deathful echoes, shall Despondence bring / The saddest visions on the mind's wan eye, / That ever wav'd on Fancy's blackest wing""",Eye,2009-09-14 19:41:12 UTC,""
5572,"","Searching ""empire"" and ""heart"" in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO.",2004-08-22 00:00:00 UTC," Thy portraits, Chamberlin, may be
A likeness, far as I can see;
But, faith! I cannot praise a single feature:
Yet, when it so shall please the Lord,
To make his people out of board,
Thy pictures will be tolerable nature.
And Loutherbourgh, when Heav'n so wills
To make brass skies, and golden hills,
With marble bullocks in glass pastures grazing;
Thy reputation too will rise,
And people, gaping with surprise,
Cry, 'Monsieur Loutherbourgh is most amazing!'
But thou must wait for that event;
Perhaps the change is never meant--
Till then, with me, thy pencil will not shine:
Till then, old red-nos'd Wilson's art
Will hold its empire o'er my heart,
By Britain left in poverty to pine.
But, honest Wilson, never mind;
Immortal praises thou shalt find,
And for a dinner have no cause to fear.
Thou start'st at my prophetic rhimes:
Don't be impatient for those times;
Wait till thou hast been dead a hundred year.
(cf. pp. 8-9 in 1782 ed.)",2012-06-27,14883,"•The poem's subtitle/summary calls Wilson ""the English Claude."" The poet mocks Chamberlin and Loutherbourgh.","""Till then, old red-nos'd Wilson's art / Will hold its empire o'er my heart.""",Empire,2014-03-03 19:59:51 UTC,I've included the entire poem
5574,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO.,2005-06-01 00:00:00 UTC," Painters and Poets never should be fat--
Sons of Apollo! listen well to that.
Fat is foul weather--dims the fancy's sight:
In poverty, the wits more nimbly muster:
Thus stars, when pinch'd by frost, cast keener lustre
On the black blanket of old mother night.
Your heavy fat, I will maintain,
Is perfect birdlime of the brain;
And, as to goldfinches the birdlime clings--
Fat holds ideas by the legs and wings.
Fat flattens the most brilliant thoughts,
Like the buff-stop on harpsichords, or spinets--
Muffling their pretty little tuneful throats,
That would have chirp'd away like linnets.
(cf. pp. 12-3 in 1787 ed.)",2012-06-27,14889,"•I've included twice: Weather and Vision.
","""Fat is foul weather--dims the fancy's sight""","",2014-03-03 19:51:45 UTC,""
5574,"","Searching in HDIS (Poetry); found again searching ""idea"" and ""bird;"" confirmed in ECCO.",2005-06-01 00:00:00 UTC," Painters and Poets never should be fat--
Sons of Apollo! listen well to that.
Fat is foul weather--dims the fancy's sight:
In poverty, the wits more nimbly muster:
Thus stars, when pinch'd by frost, cast keener lustre
On the black blanket of old mother night.
Your heavy fat, I will maintain,
Is perfect birdlime of the brain;
And, as to goldfinches the birdlime clings--
Fat holds ideas by the legs and wings.
Fat flattens the most brilliant thoughts,
Like the buff-stop on harpsichords, or spinets--
Muffling their pretty little tuneful throats,
That would have chirp'd away like linnets.
(cf. pp. 12-13 in 1787 ed.)",2012-06-27,14891,"INTEREST: crazy imagery...
Reviewed 2009-07-31. Went looking for metaphor in Google Books and ECCO, discovered it was first printed in 1787…
FIXED TYPO in C-H (sat/fat in first line).","""Your heavy fat, I will maintain, / Is perfect birdlime of the brain; / And, as to goldfinches the birdlime clings-- / Fat holds ideas by the legs and wings.""",Beasts,2014-03-03 19:52:38 UTC,""
5581,"","Searching ""furniture"" and ""head"" in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO.",2006-01-24 00:00:00 UTC," His portrait by some famous hand was done,
And then exhibited at the Salon--
At once a courtly critic criticises--
'Where is the brilliant eye, the charming grace,
The sense profound that marks the royal face;
The soul of Lewis, that so very wise is?'
Yet when he bawl'd for sense, he bawl'd, I wot,
For furniture the head had never got.
Reader, believe me that this gentleman
Was form'd on nature's very homely plan.--
Clumsy in legs and shoulders, head and gullet,
His mouth abroad in seeming wonder lost,
As if its meaning had given up the ghost:
His eye far duller than a leaden bullet;
Nature so slighting the poor royal nob,
As if she bargain'd for it by the job.
(cf. pp. 34-5 in 1787, 5th ed.)",2012-06-27,14900,"","""Yet when he bawl'd for sense, he bawl'd, I wot, / For furniture the head had never got.""","",2014-03-03 19:36:25 UTC,""
5647,"",Searching in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO.,2005-03-26 00:00:00 UTC," What dire emotions shook the Monarch's soul!
Just like two billiard balls his eyes 'gan roll,
Whilst anger all his royal heart possess'd,
That, swelling, wildly bump'd against his breast,
Bounc'd at his ribs with all its might so stout,
As resolutely bent on jumping out,
T'avenge, with all its pow'rs the dire disgrace,
And nobly spit in the offender's face.
Thus a large dumpling to its cell confin'd
(A very apt allusion to my mind),
Lies snug, until the water waxeth hot,
Then bustles 'midst the tempest of the pot:
In vain!--the lid keeps down the child of dough,
That bouncing, tumbling, sweating, rolls below.
(pp. 11-2 in 1785 edition)",2012-06-27,15094,"•Wolcot here uses a metaphor of mind with self awareness INTEREST. USE IN ENTRY?
•I've included twice: Dumpling and Cell","""Thus a large dumpling to its cell confin'd / (A very apt allusion to my mind).""",Rooms,2014-03-03 18:19:21 UTC,Canto I
5647,"","Searching ""soul"" and ""Brass"" in HDIS (Poetry); found again, ""pence;"" confirmed in ECCO.
",2005-06-07 00:00:00 UTC,"In that snug room, the scene of shrewd remark,
Whose window stares upon the saunt'ring park;
Where many a hungry bard, and gambling sinner,
In chop-fall'n sadness, counts the trees for dinner
In that snug room where any man of spunk
Would find it a hard matter to get drunk;
Where coy Tokay ne'er feels a cooks embraces,
Nor port nor claret show their rosy faces;
But where old Adam's beverage flows with pride,
From wide-mouth'd pitchers, in a plenteous tide;
Where veal, pork, mutton, beef, and fowl, and fish,
All club their joints to make one handsome dish;
Where stew-pan covers serve for plates, I ween,
And knives and forks and spoons are never seen;
Where pepper issues from a paper bag,
And for a cruet stands a brandy cag;
Where Madam Schwellenberg too often sits,
Like some old tabby in her mousing fits,
Demurely squinting with majestic mien,
To catch some fault to carry to the queen:
In that snug room, like those immortal Greeks,
Of whom, in book the thirteenth, Ovid speaks--
Around the table, all with sulky looks,
Like culprits doom'd to Tyburn, sat the cooks:
At length, with phiz that show'd the man of woes,
The sorrowing king of spits and stew-pans rose;
Like Paul at Athens, very justly sainted,
And by the charming brush of Raphael painted,
With out-stretch'd hands, and energetic grace,
He fearless thus harangues the roasting race;
Whilst gaping round, in mute attention, sit,
The poor forlorn disciples of the spit:
'Cooks, scullions, hear me ev'ry mother's son--
Know that I relish not this royal fun:
George thinks us scarcely fit ('tis very clear)
To carry guts, my brethren, to a bear.'--
'Guts to a bear!' the cooks, up-springing, cry'd--
'Guts to a bear,' the major loud reply'd.
'Guts to the dev'l!' loud roar'd the cooks again,
And toss'd their noses high in proud disdain:
The plain translation of whose pointed noses
The reader needeth not, the bard supposes;
But if the reason some dull reader looks,
'Tis this--whatever kings may think of cooks,
Howe'er crown'd heads may deem them low-born things,
Cooks are possess'd of souls as well as kings.
Yet are there some who think (but what a shame!)
Poor people's souls like pence of Birmingham,
Adulterated brass--base stuff--abhorr'd--
That never can pass current with the Lord;
And think because of wealth they boast a store,
With ev'ry freedom they may treat the poor:
Witness the story that my Muse, with tears,
Relates, O reader, to thy shrinking ears:
(cf. pp. 27-9 in 1787 edition)",2012-06-27,15095,"•Do these belong in Mineral or Uncategorized?
•INTEREST. USE in Entry
•Footnotes give, ""1. The larder. 2. This will be deemed strange by my country readers--but it is nevertheless true.""
• Reviewed 2007-04-26","""Yet are there some who think (but what a shame!) / Poor people's souls like pence of Birmingham, / Adulterated brass--base stuff--abhorr'd-- / That never can pass current with the Lord; / And think because of wealth they boast a store, / With ev'ry freedom they may treat the poor.""",Coinage,2014-03-03 18:24:27 UTC,Canto II
6179,"","Searching ""paper"" and ""mind"" in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO",2005-03-26 00:00:00 UTC,"In vain at glory gudgeon Boswell snaps--
His mind's a paper kite--compos'd of scraps;
Just o'er the tops of chimneys form'd to fly;
Not with a wing sublime to mount the sky.
Say to the dog, his head's a downright drum
Unequal to the history of Tom Thumb:
Nay tell of anecdote that thirsty leech,
He is not equal to a Tyburn speech.
",,16355,"","""In vain at glory gudgeon Boswell snaps-- / His mind's a paper kite--compos'd of scraps / Just o'er the tops of chimneys form'd to fly.""","",2014-03-03 17:16:37 UTC,""
6183,"","Searching ""brain"" and ""mint"" in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO.",2005-04-14 00:00:00 UTC,"
But let me give his m*****y a hint,
Fresh from my brain's prolific mint--
Suppose we Amateurs should, in a fury,
Just take it in our John-Bull heads to say
(And lo! 'tis very probable we may)--
'We will have oratorios at Drury?'
",2007-04-26,16360,"","""But let me give his m*****y a hint, / Fresh from my brain's prolific mint.""",Coinage,2014-03-03 18:05:57 UTC,""