work_id,theme,provenance,created_at,text,reviewed_on,id,comments,metaphor,dictionary,updated_at,context
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
6182,"","Searching ""coin"" and ""heart"" in HDIS (Poetry); confirmed in ECCO",2005-04-14 00:00:00 UTC,"O could I gain by gold those heav'nly charms?
Could gold once give thee to my eager arms,
Lo, into guineas would I coin my heart;
Those would I pour pell-mell into thy lap,
With thee to wake to love, and then to nap,
Then wake again--again to sleep depart.
(cf. p. 36 in 1792 ed.)",2007-04-26,16359,"","""Could gold once give thee to my eager arms, / Lo, into guineas would I coin my heart;""",Coinage,2014-03-03 17:02:27 UTC,""
7591,"",Searching in ECCO-TCP,2013-08-16 05:58:11 UTC,"The idle crowd in fashion's train,
Their trifling comment, pert reply,
Who talk so much, yet talk in vain,
How pleas'd for thee, Oh nymph, I fly!
For thine is all the wealth of mind,
Thine the unborrow'd gems of thought,
The flash of light, by souls refin'd,
From heav'n's empyreal source exulting caught.
(An Address to Poetry, p. 16)",,22185,"","""The idle crowd in fashion's train, / Their trifling comment, pert reply, / Who talk so much, yet talk in vain, / How pleas'd for thee, Oh nymph, I fly! / For thine is all the wealth of mind, / Thine the unborrow'd gems of thought, / The flash of light, by souls refin'd, / From heav'n's empyreal source exulting caught.""",Coinage,2013-08-16 05:58:11 UTC,Vol. I