Date: 1700

"In short, taking it for granted, that we two understand one another by half a Word, I will set both his and my Imagination on the Ramble."

— Brown, Thomas (bap. 1663, d. 1704)

Date: 1700, 1717

"Thus all Things are but alter'd, nothing dies; / And here and there th' unbodied Spirit flies, / By Time, or Force, or Sickness dispossess, / And lodges, where it lights, in Man or Beast; / Or hunts without, till ready Limbs it find, / And actuates those according to their kind; / From Tenement ...

— Dryden, John (1631-1700)

Date: 1701

"Stand by ye Fools--That noble Theam's my share,/ Farce is a Strain too low to court the Fair; / When to that pitch your Thoughts attempt to fly, / Like unskill'd Icarus you soar too high."

— Baker, Thomas (b. 1680-1)

Date: 1701

"Thro' Heat of Youth, her Fancy vainly roves, / And she acts just as every Whimsy moves."

— Baker, Thomas (b. 1680-1)

Date: 1702

"My Heart beats higher, and my nimble Spirits / Ride swiftly thro' their purple Channels round: / 'Tis the last blaze of Life: Nature revives / Like a dim, winking Lamp, that flashes brightly / With parting Light, and strait is dark for ever."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1700, 1702

"Each busie thought, that rouls within her breast, / Labours for him; the King, when first he sicken'd, / Declar'd he should succeed him in the Throne."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1700, 1702

"But whither does my roving fancy wander?"

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"Oh wretched Husband! while she hangs about thee / With idle Blandishments, and plays the fond one, / Ev'n then her hot Imagination wanders, / Contriving Riot, and loose scapes of Love."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"Trust not to that; / Rage is the shortest Passion of our Souls, / Like narrow Brooks that rise with sudden Show'rs, / It swells in haste, and falls again as soon; / Still as it ebbs the softer Thoughts flow in, / And the Deceiver Love supplies its place."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"I thought that nothing cou'd have stay'd my Soul, / That long e'er this her Flight had reach'd the Stars; / But thy known Voice has lur'd her back again."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)