Date: 1724
"This cold clay cottage is but the soul's prison, / And death, at worst, is but a surly friend, / Who conquers to give liberty."
preview | full record— Savage, Richard (1697/8-1743)
Date: 1724
"Ha!--what a shoot was there!--my blood boils in me! / Flames wind about my breast--my brain burns red, / And my eyes swim in a blue sea of sulphur!"
preview | full record— Savage, Richard (1697/8-1743)
Date: 1724
"What a slave is man, when passion masters him?"
preview | full record— Savage, Richard (1697/8-1743)
Date: 1760, 1803
"To farther conquests still my soul aspires, / And all my bosom glows with martial fires"
preview | full record— Cambridge, Richard Owen (1717-1802)
Date: 1777
"Pale-eyed Affright, his heart of silver hue, / In vain essayed her bosom to acale."
preview | full record— Chatterton, Thomas (1752-1770)
Date: 1820
"Thus a number of writers possess the form, whilst they want the spirit of those whom, it is alleged, they imitate; because the former is the endowment of the age in which they live, and the latter must be the uncommunicated lightning of their own mind."
preview | full record— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)
Date: 1820
"The cloud of mind is discharging its collected lightning, and the equilibrium between institutions and opinions is now restoring or is about to be restored."
preview | full record— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)
Date: 1820
"He might as wisely and as easily determine that his mind should no longer be the mirror of all that is lovely in the visible universe as exclude from his contemplation the beautiful which exists in the writings of a great contemporary."
preview | full record— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)
Date: 1820
"Every man's mind is, in this respect, modified by all the objects of Nature and art; by every word and every suggestion which he ever admitted to act upon his consciousness; it is the mirror upon which all forms are reflected and in which they compose one form."
preview | full record— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)
Date: 1820
"How will thy soul, cloven to its depth with terror, / Gape like a hell within!"
preview | full record— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)