Date: 1678

"Into his studious Closet to stuff his Lunatick head, since he can get nothing for his belly."

— Porter, Thomas (1636-1680)

Date: 1680

"And nothing to the Soul can come, / Till th' ushering Senses make it room."

— Shadwell, Thomas (1642-1692)

Date: 1682

"I fear my breast wants room for the excessive joy; is stuck round with the darts of your Beauty, like an Orange that is stuck with Cloves."

— D'Urfey, Thomas (1653?-1723)

Date: 1701

"Conceit, like Wind, has seiz'd the empty Head, and Men convulsively strive to utter what they want a Fund of Brains to yeild."

— Baker, Thomas (b. 1680-1)

Date: 1701

"Confusions! Noises! That teaze Retirement, and only eccho in an empty Head."

— Baker, Thomas (b. 1680-1)

Date: 1703

"My Father! oh let me unlade my Breast, / Pour out the fullness of my Soul before you, / Show ev'ry tender, ev'ry grateful Thought, / This wond'rous Goodness stirs."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"It were unjust, no let me spare my Friend, / Lock up the fatal Secret in my Breast, / Nor tell him that which will undo his Quiet."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"'Tis well! these Solemn Sounds, this Pomp of Horror, / Are fit to feed the Frenzy in my Soul, / Here's room for Meditation, ev'n to Madness, / 'Till the Mind burst with Thinking."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"Because my Soul was rudely drawn from yours; / A poor imperfect Copy of my Father, / Where Goodness, and the strength of manly Virtue, / Was thinly planted, and the idle Void / Fill'd up with light Belief, and easie Fondness; / It was, because I lov'd, and was a Woman."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1706

"'Till then be kind, and leave me to my self; / Leave me to vent the Fulness of my Breast, / Pour out the Sorrows of my Soul alone, / And sigh my self, if possible, to Peace."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)