work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
3955,"",Searching HDIS (Poetry),2004-06-14 00:00:00 UTC,"TO AMASIA. COULD YOU BELIEVE MY FLAME, WOULD THAT RELIEVE?
Could you believe my Flame, would that relieve?
You would but scorn the more, as you the more believe.
A real Passion but disdain Creates,
And Pride's a Monster that on Beauty waits.
Custom has taught all Virgins to be coy,
And feeds their Vanity, but starves their Joy.
O'er Sense, o'er Reason, and o'er Love it Rules,
Custom, the Guardian, and the guide of Fools,
Custom, which leads us out, and brings us in;
And yet, 'tis Custom chiefly makes Men Sin.
When we do ill, the weak pretence we show,
The Poor excuse, is, Custom taught us so,
And all the World must with the Fashion go.
If then, that Phantom must all Acts approve,
Know, that 'tis Customary too to Love.
Common to all as Death;--the Rural Swain
Sighs for the Nymph that Charm'd him on the plain
And sits, and Sings like me, like me, in vain.
Forsakes his Flocks, and seeks some cool Retreat,
Shunning the Sun's, and Love's more scorching heat,
Supine he lies--
Gazing on others Herds, and as he Sighs, they bleat.
The Soldier too, proud in his own Commands,
Receives the Signal from his Mistress Hands,
O'er him Triumphant still, where'er she goes,
At every Glance Alarm'd--
More than with Drums, and Trumpets from his foes.
From Noisy Nonsense Calm, entranc'd he lies,
And Swears not now,--but by his Charmer's Eyes.
The pleading Lawyers from the Bar remove,
And slight all suits, but the soft suit of Love.
An other's case, Loquacious, they make known,
Impertinently loud;--
But as their Clients, silent, in their own.
Love, by strange Pow'r, maintains his Conqu'ring Sway,
And we must, in our own despight, obey,
Speaking the least, who have the most to say.
Amasia, thus I prove my claim to you,
All Mankind Love--
But none of all, as I, unhappy, do.
There I transcend the Custom, bold, extravagantly new.
In other things--
Let all your Sex to their old Law refer,
Amasia is belov'd, Love should be Law to her.
Let others boast their Titles, or their Arts,
But only Hearts should have a right to Hearts.
And yet, I own you are not blindly led,
For Reason bids you shun the humble Bed;
Reason?--who ever Lov'd, that did with Reason Wed!",2011-06-16,10283,"•Not really the rule of passion, rather the rule of custom or habit (Had Hume known this poem, I think he would have enjoyed it.)","""O'er Sense, o'er Reason, and o'er Love it Rules, / Custom, the Guardian, and the guide of Fools.""","",2011-06-16 20:08:36 UTC,I've included the entire poem
3962,"","Searching ""court"" and ""soul"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2004-08-25 00:00:00 UTC,"How far will Love his Conqu'ring Wings extend!
O must my Mortal suff'rings never end?
They cannot, no; each sigh Love's flight sustains,
O'er my own Heart in my own Breast he Reigns,
And holds too strong, my strugling Soul in Chains.
Thy growing Beauties yield him fresh supplies,
His Darts are pointed by Amasia's Eyes.
Thy soft Commands are by this Cheif obey'd,
'Tis you, who teach Love warfare, Charming Maid!
And on his Standards is thy form display'd.
I yield, I yeild, thus Prostrate low, I fall,
Love's Goddess thou! thou Conquerour of my all!
You all my Thoughts, you all my Speech employ,
Thou giv'st me pain, and thou can'st give me Joy.
Whate'er you please to do, I pleas'd, approve,
Hate, where you hate, and where you fancy, Love.
Sun of my Days! and Phantom of my Nights!
Source of my Woes! and Spring of my Delights!
Fond of my Life, should you make kind returns,
Yet now I slight it, since Amasia scorns.
Just as you make me, either Curst or blest,
Form'd to your will, my Soul is rais'd, or prest,
And swells and falls, like thy own Charming Breast.
Ill with thy Breast do I my Soul compare,
Thy Breast--the Seat of all that's Sweet and fair,
Thy Breast--O Scene of Pleasures! ever blooming there.
Whilst in my Soul Despair her Court maintains,
And with deep Pomp in solid Darkness Reigns.
Thy Breast!--O never let me lose the Theam,
There, as entranc'd, let my lull'd fancy Dream.
O could I gently melt the Lovely Snow,
Thence, thence the Poet's Helicon would flow,
And I should need no other Muse than you.
If now with Frozen coldness you inspire,
O could you burn, how fierce would mount the Fire,
Flaming with Joy, and sparkling with desire.
To heights sublime would soaring fancy drive,
Amasia's Name should at the Stars arrive,
Amasia long, long Ages should her self survive.
No sad decay should to thy Beauties come,
As in thy Face, when mould'ring in the Tomb,
They should for ever in my Numbers bloom.
More lasting far than polish'd Marble made,
While Men could read, thy glories should not fade.
Thy Lovely Image thro' the World should go,
The World should thee it's greatest Charmer know,
Thy Charms, which seem Immortal, should be so.
Round thro' the Universe thy Fame should flee,
My Verse ador'd should live, by giving Life to thee.
Sound, Fame, thy Trumpet, to the Skies Proclaim,
Amasia lives, for ever lives in Fame.
Sound too her Sylvius lives; Love Life insures,
Known, while the Sun, the God of Verse endures,
Known for my Constant Love, Amasia, ever Yours.
",2012-01-11,10295,Not a juridical but the royal court...,"""Whilst in my Soul Despair her Court maintains, / And with deep Pomp in solid Darkness Reigns.""",Court,2012-01-11 21:46:11 UTC,I've included the entire poem
4352,"","Searching ""rule"" and ""reason"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2004-06-22 00:00:00 UTC,"Right you conclude, reply'd the smiling Boy
Love ruins none, 'tis Men themselves destroy;
And those vile Wretches, which you lately saw,
Transgress'd his Rules, as well as Reason's Law.
They're not Love's Subjects, but the Slaves of Lust,
Nor is their Punishment so great, as just.
For Love and Lust essentially divide,
Like Day and Night, Humility and Pride;
One Darkness hides, t'other does always shine,
This of infernal Make, and that divine.
Reason no gen'rous Passion does oppose;
'Tis Lust, (not Love) and Reason, that are Foes.
She bids you scorn a base inglorious Flame,
Black as the gloomy Shade, from whence it came,
In this, her Precepts should Obedience find,
But yours is not of that ignoble kind.
You Err, in thinking she would disapprove
The brave Pursuit of honourable Love,
And therefore judge what's harmless, an Offence,
Invert her Meaning, and mistake her Sense.
She could not such insipid Counsel give,
As not to love at all, 'tis not to live,
But where bright Virtue, and true Beauty lies,
And that in Delia, charming Delia's Eyes.
Could you, contented, see th' Angelic Maid
In old Alexis' dull Embraces laid?
Or Rough-hewn Tityrus possess those Charms,
Which are in Heaven, the Heaven of Delia's Arms?
Consider, Youth, what Transports you forego,
The most intire Felicity below;
Which is by Fate alone reserv'd for you;
Monarchs have been deny'd, for Monarchs sue.
I own 'tis difficult to gain the Prize,
Or 'twould be cheap, and low in noble Eyes;
But there is one soft Minute, when the Mind
Is left unguarded, waiting to be kind,
Which the wise Lover understanding right,
Steals in like Day upon the Wings of Light.
You urge your Vow, but can those Vows prevail
Whose first Foundation, and whose Reason fail?
You vow'd to leave fair Delia, but you thought
Your Passion was a Crime, your Flame a Fault;
But since your Judgment err'd, it has no Force
To bind at all, but is dissolv'd of Course.
And therefore hesitate no longer here,
But banish all the dull Remains of Fear.
Dare you be happy Youth, but dare, and be;
I'll be your Convoy to the charming she.
What still irresolute? Debating still?
View her, and then forsake her if you will.
",,11422,"",Reason has a law that may be transgressed by vile wretches,Court,2009-09-14 19:35:53 UTC,""
6718,"",Reading,2010-06-08 22:00:57 UTC,"Nor can this right be less when national;
Reason which governs one, should govern all.
Whate're the dialects of courts may tell,
He that his right demands can ne're rebel;
Which right, if 'tis by Governors denied,
May be procured by force, or foreign aid.
For tyranny's a nation's term of grief;
As folks cry Fire, to hasten in relief.
And when the hated word is heard about,
All men should come to help the people out.
(Part II, p. 48, ll. 834-843)",,17878,"","""Nor can this right be less when national; / Reason which governs one, should govern all.""","",2010-06-08 22:00:57 UTC,Part II
3962,"","Searching ""chain"" and ""soul"" in HDIS (Poetry)",2012-01-11 21:48:00 UTC,"How far will Love his Conqu'ring Wings extend!
O must my Mortal suff'rings never end?
They cannot, no; each sigh Love's flight sustains,
O'er my own Heart in my own Breast he Reigns,
And holds too strong, my strugling Soul in Chains.
Thy growing Beauties yield him fresh supplies,
His Darts are pointed by Amasia's Eyes.
Thy soft Commands are by this Cheif obey'd,
'Tis you, who teach Love warfare, Charming Maid!
And on his Standards is thy form display'd.
I yield, I yeild, thus Prostrate low, I fall,
Love's Goddess thou! thou Conquerour of my all!
You all my Thoughts, you all my Speech employ,
Thou giv'st me pain, and thou can'st give me Joy.
Whate'er you please to do, I pleas'd, approve,
Hate, where you hate, and where you fancy, Love.
Sun of my Days! and Phantom of my Nights!
Source of my Woes! and Spring of my Delights!
Fond of my Life, should you make kind returns,
Yet now I slight it, since Amasia scorns.
Just as you make me, either Curst or blest,
Form'd to your will, my Soul is rais'd, or prest,
And swells and falls, like thy own Charming Breast.
Ill with thy Breast do I my Soul compare,
Thy Breast--the Seat of all that's Sweet and fair,
Thy Breast--O Scene of Pleasures! ever blooming there.
Whilst in my Soul Despair her Court maintains,
And with deep Pomp in solid Darkness Reigns.
Thy Breast!--O never let me lose the Theam,
There, as entranc'd, let my lull'd fancy Dream.
O could I gently melt the Lovely Snow,
Thence, thence the Poet's Helicon would flow,
And I should need no other Muse than you.
If now with Frozen coldness you inspire,
O could you burn, how fierce would mount the Fire,
Flaming with Joy, and sparkling with desire.
To heights sublime would soaring fancy drive,
Amasia's Name should at the Stars arrive,
Amasia long, long Ages should her self survive.
No sad decay should to thy Beauties come,
As in thy Face, when mould'ring in the Tomb,
They should for ever in my Numbers bloom.
More lasting far than polish'd Marble made,
While Men could read, thy glories should not fade.
Thy Lovely Image thro' the World should go,
The World should thee it's greatest Charmer know,
Thy Charms, which seem Immortal, should be so.
Round thro' the Universe thy Fame should flee,
My Verse ador'd should live, by giving Life to thee.
Sound, Fame, thy Trumpet, to the Skies Proclaim,
Amasia lives, for ever lives in Fame.
Sound too her Sylvius lives; Love Life insures,
Known, while the Sun, the God of Verse endures,
Known for my Constant Love, Amasia, ever Yours.
",2013-06-04,19444,"","""They cannot, no; each sigh Love's flight sustains, / O'er my own Heart in my own Breast he Reigns, / And holds too strong, my strugling Soul in Chains.""",Fetters,2013-06-04 15:40:09 UTC,""
7682,"",Reading,2013-09-18 14:29:58 UTC,"Let either side abate of their Demands,
And both submit to Reason's high Commands,
For which way ere the Conquest shall encline,
The Loss Britannia will at last be thine.
(p. 165, ll. 349-352)",,22790,"","""Let either side abate of their Demands, / And both submit to Reason's high Commands, / For which way ere the Conquest shall encline, / The Loss Britannia will at last be thine.""","",2013-09-18 14:29:58 UTC,""
7682,"",Reading,2013-09-18 14:33:58 UTC,"Wit, like a hasty Flood, may over-run us,
And too much Sense has oftentimes undone us:
Wit is a Flux, a Looseness of the Brain,
And Sense-abstract has too much Pride to reign:
Wit-unconcoct is the Extream of Sloth,
And too much Sense is the Extream of both;
Abstracted-Wit 'Tis own'd is a Disease,
But Sense-abstracted has no Power to please:
For Sense, like Water, is but Wit condense,
And Wit, like Air, is rarify'd from Sense:
Meer Sense is sullen; stiff, and unpolite,
Meer Wit is Apoplectick, thin, and light:
Wit is a King without a Parliament,
And Sense a Democratick Government:
Wit, like the French, wher'e'er it reigns destroys,
And Sense advanc'd is apt to Tyrannize:
Wit without Sense is like the Laughing-Evil,
And Sense unmix'd with Fancy is the D---l.
Wit is a Standing-Army Government,
And Sense a sullen stubborn P---t:
Wit by its haste anticipates its Fate,
And so does Sense by being obstinate:
Wit without Sense in Verse is all but Farce,
Sense without Wit in Verse is all mine A---.
Wit, like the French, performs before it thinks,
And thoughtful Sense without Performance sinks;
Sense without Wit is Flegmatick and pale,
And is all Head, forsooth, without a Tail:
Wit without Sense is Cholerick and Red,
Has Tail enough indeed, but has no Head.
Wit, like the jangling Chimes, rings all in one,
Till Sense, the Artist, sets them into Tune:
Wit, like the Belly, if it be not fed,
Will starve the Members, and distract the Head.
Wit is the Fruitful Womb where Thoughts conceive,
Sense is the Vital Heat which Life and Form must give:
Wit is the Teeming Mother brings them forth,
Sense is the Active Father gives them Worth.
United: Wit and Sense, makes Science thrive,
Divided: neither Wit nor Sense can live;
For while the Parties eagerly contend,
The Mortal Strife must in their mutual Ruin end.
(pp. 165-7, ll. 353-394)",,22792,"OED: ""An abnormally copious flowing of blood, excrement, etc. from the bowels or other organs; a morbid or excessive discharge. spec. An early name for dysentery; also †red flux, †flux of blood, bloody flux (see main entry).""","""Wit is a Flux, a Looseness of the Brain, / And Sense-abstract has too much Pride to reign.""","",2013-09-18 14:49:18 UTC,""
7682,"",Reading,2013-09-18 14:41:49 UTC,"Wit, like a hasty Flood, may over-run us,
And too much Sense has oftentimes undone us:
Wit is a Flux, a Looseness of the Brain,
And Sense-abstract has too much Pride to reign:
Wit-unconcoct is the Extream of Sloth,
And too much Sense is the Extream of both;
Abstracted-Wit 'Tis own'd is a Disease,
But Sense-abstracted has no Power to please:
For Sense, like Water, is but Wit condense,
And Wit, like Air, is rarify'd from Sense:
Meer Sense is sullen; stiff, and unpolite,
Meer Wit is Apoplectick, thin, and light:
Wit is a King without a Parliament,
And Sense a Democratick Government:
Wit, like the French, wher'e'er it reigns destroys,
And Sense advant'd is apt to Tyrannize:
Wit without Sense is like the Laughing-Evil,
And Sense unmix'd with Fancy is the D---l.
Wit is a Standing-Army Government,
And Sense a sullen stubborn P---t:
Wit by its haste anticipates its Fate,
And so does Sense by being obstinate:
Wit without Sense in Verse is all but Farce,
Sense without Wit in Verse is all mine A---.
Wit, like the French, performs before it thinks,
And thoughtful Sense without Performance sinks;
Sense without Wit is Flegmatick and pale,
And is all Head, forsooth, without a Tail:
Wit without Sense is Cholerick and Red,
Has Tail enough indeed, but has no Head.
Wit, like the jangling Chimes, rings all in one,
Till Sense, the Artist, sets them into Tune:
Wit, like the Belly, if it be not fed,
Will starve the Members, and distract the Head.
Wit is the Fruitful Womb where Thoughts conceive,
Sense is the Vital Heat which Life and Form must give:
Wit is the Teeming Mother brings them forth,
Sense is the Active Father gives them Worth.
United: Wit and Sense, makes Science thrive,
Divided: neither Wit nor Sense can live;
For while the Parties eagerly contend,
The Mortal Strife must in their mutual Ruin end.
(pp. 165-7, ll. 353-394)",,22795,"","""Wit is a King without a Parliament, / And Sense a Democratick Government.""","",2013-09-18 14:41:49 UTC,""
7682,"",Reading,2013-09-18 14:44:51 UTC,"Wit, like a hasty Flood, may over-run us,
And too much Sense has oftentimes undone us:
Wit is a Flux, a Looseness of the Brain,
And Sense-abstract has too much Pride to reign:
Wit-unconcoct is the Extream of Sloth,
And too much Sense is the Extream of both;
Abstracted-Wit 'Tis own'd is a Disease,
But Sense-abstracted has no Power to please:
For Sense, like Water, is but Wit condense,
And Wit, like Air, is rarify'd from Sense:
Meer Sense is sullen; stiff, and unpolite,
Meer Wit is Apoplectick, thin, and light:
Wit is a King without a Parliament,
And Sense a Democratick Government:
Wit, like the French, wher'e'er it reigns destroys,
And Sense advanc'd is apt to Tyrannize:
Wit without Sense is like the Laughing-Evil,
And Sense unmix'd with Fancy is the D---l.
Wit is a Standing-Army Government,
And Sense a sullen stubborn P---t:
Wit by its haste anticipates its Fate,
And so does Sense by being obstinate:
Wit without Sense in Verse is all but Farce,
Sense without Wit in Verse is all mine A---.
Wit, like the French, performs before it thinks,
And thoughtful Sense without Performance sinks;
Sense without Wit is Flegmatick and pale,
And is all Head, forsooth, without a Tail:
Wit without Sense is Cholerick and Red,
Has Tail enough indeed, but has no Head.
Wit, like the jangling Chimes, rings all in one,
Till Sense, the Artist, sets them into Tune:
Wit, like the Belly, if it be not fed,
Will starve the Members, and distract the Head.
Wit is the Fruitful Womb where Thoughts conceive,
Sense is the Vital Heat which Life and Form must give:
Wit is the Teeming Mother brings them forth,
Sense is the Active Father gives them Worth.
United: Wit and Sense, makes Science thrive,
Divided: neither Wit nor Sense can live;
For while the Parties eagerly contend,
The Mortal Strife must in their mutual Ruin end.
(pp. 165-7, ll. 353-394)",,22796,"FIXING ANOTHER TYPO from C-H Lion: ""advant'd""","""Wit, like the French, wher'e'er it reigns destroys, / And Sense advanc'd is apt to Tyrannize.""","",2013-09-18 14:44:51 UTC,""
7682,"",Reading,2013-09-18 15:04:13 UTC,"Wit, like a hasty Flood, may over-run us,
And too much Sense has oftentimes undone us:
Wit is a Flux, a Looseness of the Brain,
And Sense-abstract has too much Pride to reign:
Wit-unconcoct is the Extream of Sloth,
And too much Sense is the Extream of both;
Abstracted-Wit 'Tis own'd is a Disease,
But Sense-abstracted has no Power to please:
For Sense, like Water, is but Wit condense,
And Wit, like Air, is rarify'd from Sense:
Meer Sense is sullen; stiff, and unpolite,
Meer Wit is Apoplectick, thin, and light:
Wit is a King without a Parliament,
And Sense a Democratick Government:
Wit, like the French, wher'e'er it reigns destroys,
And Sense advanc'd is apt to Tyrannize:
Wit without Sense is like the Laughing-Evil,
And Sense unmix'd with Fancy is the D---l.
Wit is a Standing-Army Government,
And Sense a sullen stubborn P---t:
Wit by its haste anticipates its Fate,
And so does Sense by being obstinate:
Wit without Sense in Verse is all but Farce,
Sense without Wit in Verse is all mine A---.
Wit, like the French, performs before it thinks,
And thoughtful Sense without Performance sinks;
Sense without Wit is Flegmatick and pale,
And is all Head, forsooth, without a Tail:
Wit without Sense is Cholerick and Red,
Has Tail enough indeed, but has no Head.
Wit, like the jangling Chimes, rings all in one,
Till Sense, the Artist, sets them into Tune:
Wit, like the Belly, if it be not fed,
Will starve the Members, and distract the Head.
Wit is the Fruitful Womb where Thoughts conceive,
Sense is the Vital Heat which Life and Form must give:
Wit is the Teeming Mother brings them forth,
Sense is the Active Father gives them Worth.
United: Wit and Sense, makes Science thrive,
Divided: neither Wit nor Sense can live;
For while the Parties eagerly contend,
The Mortal Strife must in their mutual Ruin end.
(pp. 165-7, ll. 353-394)",,22798,"","""Wit is a Standing-Army Government, / And Sense a sullen stubborn P---t.""","",2013-09-18 15:04:13 UTC,""