work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
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,""
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
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,""