work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
4753,"","Searching ""throne"" and ""reason"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2004-07-19 00:00:00 UTC," Too much my heart of Beauty's power hath known,
Too long to Love hath reason left her throne;
Too long my genius mourn'd his myrtle chain,
And three rich years of youth consum'd in vain.
My wishes, lull'd with soft inglorious dreams,
Forgot the patriot's and the sage's themes:
Through each Elysian vale and fairy grove,
Through all the enchanted paradise of love,
Misled by sickly hope's deceitful flame,
Averse to action, and renouncing fame.
",2006-10-16,12580,OED: The myrtle was held sacred to the goddess Venus. ,"""Too much my heart of Beauty's power hath known, / Too long to Love hath reason left her throne; / Too long my genius mourn'd his myrtle chain, / And three rich years of youth consum'd in vain.""",Throne,2011-06-10 20:20:15 UTC,""
7665,"",Reading,2013-09-02 03:26:51 UTC,"He follows nature, (not like thee!) and shows us
An uninverted system of a man.
His appetite wears Reason's golden chain,
And finds in due restraint its luxury.
His passion, like an eagle well reclaim'd,
Is taught to fly at nought but infinite.
Patient his hope, unanxious is his care,
His caution fearless, and his grief (if grief
The gods ordain) a stranger to despair.
And why?--Because affection, more than meet,
His wisdom leaves not disengaged from Heaven.
Those secondary goods that smile on earth,
He, loving in proportion, loves in peace.
They most the world enjoy, who least admire.
His understanding 'scapes the common cloud
Of fumes arising from a boiling breast.
His head is clear, because his heart is cool,
By worldly competitions uninflamed.
The moderate movements of his soul admit
Distinct ideas, and matured debate,
An eye impartial, and an even scale:
Whence judgment sound, and unrepenting choice.
Thus, in a double sense, the good are wise;
On its own dunghill, wiser than the world.
What then the world? It must be doubly weak;
Strange truth! as soon would they believe the Creed.
(p. 179, ll. 1160-85)",,22644,"","""His appetite wears Reason's golden chain, / And finds in due restraint its luxury.""",Fetters,2013-09-02 03:26:51 UTC,Night the Eighth
7665,"",Simile,2013-09-02 03:28:00 UTC,"He follows nature, (not like thee!) and shows us
An uninverted system of a man.
His appetite wears Reason's golden chain,
And finds in due restraint its luxury.
His passion, like an eagle well reclaim'd,
Is taught to fly at nought but infinite.
Patient his hope, unanxious is his care,
His caution fearless, and his grief (if grief
The gods ordain) a stranger to despair.
And why?--Because affection, more than meet,
His wisdom leaves not disengaged from Heaven.
Those secondary goods that smile on earth,
He, loving in proportion, loves in peace.
They most the world enjoy, who least admire.
His understanding 'scapes the common cloud
Of fumes arising from a boiling breast.
His head is clear, because his heart is cool,
By worldly competitions uninflamed.
The moderate movements of his soul admit
Distinct ideas, and matured debate,
An eye impartial, and an even scale:
Whence judgment sound, and unrepenting choice.
Thus, in a double sense, the good are wise;
On its own dunghill, wiser than the world.
What then the world? It must be doubly weak;
Strange truth! as soon would they believe the Creed.
(p. 179, ll. 1160-85)",,22645,"","""His passion, like an eagle well reclaim'd, / Is taught to fly at nought but infinite.""",Animals,2013-09-02 03:28:00 UTC,Night the Eighth
7665,"",Reading,2013-09-02 03:29:03 UTC,"He follows nature, (not like thee!) and shows us
An uninverted system of a man.
His appetite wears Reason's golden chain,
And finds in due restraint its luxury.
His passion, like an eagle well reclaim'd,
Is taught to fly at nought but infinite.
Patient his hope, unanxious is his care,
His caution fearless, and his grief (if grief
The gods ordain) a stranger to despair.
And why?--Because affection, more than meet,
His wisdom leaves not disengaged from Heaven.
Those secondary goods that smile on earth,
He, loving in proportion, loves in peace.
They most the world enjoy, who least admire.
His understanding 'scapes the common cloud
Of fumes arising from a boiling breast.
His head is clear, because his heart is cool,
By worldly competitions uninflamed.
The moderate movements of his soul admit
Distinct ideas, and matured debate,
An eye impartial, and an even scale:
Whence judgment sound, and unrepenting choice.
Thus, in a double sense, the good are wise;
On its own dunghill, wiser than the world.
What then the world? It must be doubly weak;
Strange truth! as soon would they believe the Creed.
(p. 179, ll. 1160-85)",,22646,"","""His understanding 'scapes the common cloud / Of fumes arising from a boiling breast.""","",2013-09-02 03:29:03 UTC,Night the Eighth
7665,"",Reading,2013-09-02 03:30:56 UTC,"Yet thus it is; nor otherwise can be;
So far from aught romantic what I sing.
Bliss has no being, Virtue has no strength,
But from the prospect of immortal life.
Who think earth all, or (what weighs just the same)
Who care no farther, must prize what it yields;
Fond of its fancies, proud of its parades.
Who thinks earth nothing, can't its charms admire;
He can't a foe, though most malignant, hate,
Because that hate would prove his greater foe.
'Tis hard for them (yet who so loudly boast
Good-will to men?) to love their dearest friend;
For may not he invade their good supreme,
Where the least jealousy turns love to gall?
All shines to them, that for a season shines.
Each act, each thought, he questions, ""What its weight,
Its colour what, a thousand ages hence?""
And what it there appears, he deems it now.
Hence, pure are the recesses of his soul;
The god-like man has nothing to conceal.
His virtue, constitutionally deep,
Has Habit's firmness, and Affection's flame;
Angels, allied, descend to feed the fire;
And Death, which others slays, makes him a god.
(pp. 179-80, ll. 1186-1209)",,22647,"","""Each act, each thought, he questions, ""What its weight, / Its colour what, a thousand ages hence?"" / And what it there appears, he deems it now. / Hence, pure are the recesses of his soul; / The god-like man has nothing to conceal.""","",2013-09-02 03:30:56 UTC,Night the Eighth
7665,"",Reading,2013-09-02 03:32:58 UTC,"Yet thus it is; nor otherwise can be;
So far from aught romantic what I sing.
Bliss has no being, Virtue has no strength,
But from the prospect of immortal life.
Who think earth all, or (what weighs just the same)
Who care no farther, must prize what it yields;
Fond of its fancies, proud of its parades.
Who thinks earth nothing, can't its charms admire;
He can't a foe, though most malignant, hate,
Because that hate would prove his greater foe.
'Tis hard for them (yet who so loudly boast
Good-will to men?) to love their dearest friend;
For may not he invade their good supreme,
Where the least jealousy turns love to gall?
All shines to them, that for a season shines.
Each act, each thought, he questions, ""What its weight,
Its colour what, a thousand ages hence?""
And what it there appears, he deems it now.
Hence, pure are the recesses of his soul;
The god-like man has nothing to conceal.
His virtue, constitutionally deep,
Has Habit's firmness, and Affection's flame;
Angels, allied, descend to feed the fire;
And Death, which others slays, makes him a god.
(pp. 179-80, ll. 1186-1209)",,22648,"","""His virtue, constitutionally deep, / Has Habit's firmness, and Affection's flame; / Angels, allied, descend to feed the fire; / And Death, which others slays, makes him a god.""","",2013-09-02 03:32:58 UTC,Night the Eighth
7665,"",Reading,2013-09-02 03:34:06 UTC,"From this thy just annihilation rise,
Lorenzo! rise to something, by reply.
The World, thy client, listens and expects;
And longs to crown thee with immortal praise.
Canst thou be silent? No; for Wit is thine;
And Wit talks most when least she has to say,
And Reason interrupts not her career.
She'll say, that ""mists above the mountains rise;""
And with a thousand pleasantries amuse.
She'll sparkle, puzzle, flutter, raise a dust,
And fly conviction in the dust she raised.
(p. 180, ll. 1221-1231)",,22649,"","""Canst thou be silent? No; for Wit is thine; / And Wit talks most when least she has to say, / And Reason interrupts not her career.""","",2013-09-02 03:34:06 UTC,Night the Eighth
7665,"",Reading,2013-09-02 03:35:26 UTC,"""Sense is our helmet, Wit is but the plume; / The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves.""
Wit, how delicious to man's dainty taste!
'Tis precious, as the vehicle of sense;
But, as its substitute, a dire disease.
Pernicious talent! flatter'd by the world,
By the blind world, which thinks the talent rare.
Wisdom is rare, Lorenzo! wit abounds;
Passion can give it; sometimes wine inspires
The lucky flash; and madness rarely fails.
Whatever cause the spirit strongly stirs,
Confers the bays, and rivals thy renown.
For thy renown 'twere well was this the worst:
Chance often hits it; and, to pique thee more,
See, Dulness, blundering on vivacities,
Shakes her sage head at the calamity
Which has exposed and let her down to thee.
But Wisdom, awful Wisdom, which inspects,
Discerns, compares, weighs, separates, infers,
Seizes the right, and holds it to the last;
How rare! in senates, synods, sought in vain!
Or if there found, 'tis sacred to the few;
While a lewd prostitute to multitudes,
Frequent, as fatal, Wit: in civil life,
Wit makes an enterpriser; Sense, a man.
Wit hates authority, commotion loves,
And thinks herself the lightning of the storm.
In states, 'tis dangerous; in religion, death:
Shall Wit turn Christian, when the dull believe?
Sense is our helmet, Wit is but the plume;
The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves.
Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound;
When cut by Wit, it casts a brighter beam;
Yet, Wit apart, it is a diamond still.
Wit, widow'd of Good Sense, is worse than nought;
It hoists more sail to run against a rock.
Thus, a half-Chesterfield is quite a fool;
Whom dull fools scorn, and bless their want of wit.
(pp. 180-1, ll. 1232-1267)",,22650,"","""Sense is our helmet, Wit is but the plume; / The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves.""","",2013-09-02 03:35:26 UTC,Night the Eighth
7665,"",Reading,2013-09-02 03:36:29 UTC,"Wit, how delicious to man's dainty taste!
'Tis precious, as the vehicle of sense;
But, as its substitute, a dire disease.
Pernicious talent! flatter'd by the world,
By the blind world, which thinks the talent rare.
Wisdom is rare, Lorenzo! wit abounds;
Passion can give it; sometimes wine inspires
The lucky flash; and madness rarely fails.
Whatever cause the spirit strongly stirs,
Confers the bays, and rivals thy renown.
For thy renown 'twere well was this the worst:
Chance often hits it; and, to pique thee more,
See, Dulness, blundering on vivacities,
Shakes her sage head at the calamity
Which has exposed and let her down to thee.
But Wisdom, awful Wisdom, which inspects,
Discerns, compares, weighs, separates, infers,
Seizes the right, and holds it to the last;
How rare! in senates, synods, sought in vain!
Or if there found, 'tis sacred to the few;
While a lewd prostitute to multitudes,
Frequent, as fatal, Wit: in civil life,
Wit makes an enterpriser; Sense, a man.
Wit hates authority, commotion loves,
And thinks herself the lightning of the storm.
In states, 'tis dangerous; in religion, death:
Shall Wit turn Christian, when the dull believe?
Sense is our helmet, Wit is but the plume;
The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves.
Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound;
When cut by Wit, it casts a brighter beam;
Yet, Wit apart, it is a diamond still.
Wit, widow'd of Good Sense, is worse than nought;
It hoists more sail to run against a rock.
Thus, a half-Chesterfield is quite a fool;
Whom dull fools scorn, and bless their want of wit.
(pp. 180-1, ll. 1232-1267)",,22651,"","""Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; / When cut by Wit, it casts a brighter beam; / Yet, Wit apart, it is a diamond still.""","",2013-09-02 03:36:29 UTC,Night the Eighth
7665,"",Reading,2013-09-02 03:37:53 UTC,"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)",,22652,"","""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.""","",2013-09-02 03:37:53 UTC,Night the Eighth