Date: 1697

"Her Mony may raise many a false pretended Passion, and young Women seldom want a little hardned Vanity to stamp it into Currant Love."

— Cibber, Colley (1671-1757)

Date: 1697

"[T[hou shalt see me mould his heart in the palm of my Hand like soft Wax, till I make it bear what impression I please"

— D'Urfey, Thomas (1653?-1723)

Date: 1697

""All Ætna's Caves strove in his lab'ring Soul, / And Stygian Tempests in his veins did rowl""

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"Its Springs divinely touch'd, his lab'ring Brain / Did this Celestial Vision entertain."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"A lawless Rout of Passions still engage / In Nature's Cause with hideous Noise and Rage. / Reason is in the Tumult quite supprest, / And still the safest side we think the best."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"At such Reflections do's not Nature start, / And try at every Spring to touch your Heart? / Do's not soft Pity's fire begin to burn, / Do not your yearning Bowels in you turn? / In such a case Breasts arm'd with temper'd Steel / And Hearts of Marble, should impression feel."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"Lord, strike this Marble Heart, thy powerful Stroke / Will make a Flood gush from the cleaving Rock. / O draw all Nature's Sluces up, and drain / Her Magazines, which liquid Stores contain."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"Prodigious was the Compass of his Mind, / Wide as his Love, which took in Humane Kind. / He Albion's Good, not Fame or Riches fought, / Generous, and open-hearted to a fault. / An unexhausted Magazin his Brain / Did all the Treasures of the Schools contain."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"Thro' Helm and Skull the Fauchion passage found, / Cleft thro' the Brain, and ruin'd with the Wound / The curious Imag'ry by Fancy wrought, / All Mem'ry's Cells, and all the Moulds of Thought."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"What inward Whips my tortur'd Bowels tear? / Fierce Vipers twist their Spires about my Heart, / And Bite, and Sting, and Wound with deadly smart. / With more than Atlas weight my Soul's opprest, / And raging Tempests beat along my breast: / Corroding Flames eat thro' my burning veins, / And all ...

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)