Date: 1700, 1702

"No! now she shoots her fires into my Breast, / She urges my Desires, and bids me seize thee."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1700, 1702

"What is the Soul of Man but Light, / Drawn down from thy transcendant height? / What but an Intellectual Beam? / A Spark of thy immortal Flame?"

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1700, 1702

"And now like Oyl my flaming Spirits blaze; / My Arteries, my Heart, my Brain is scorch't, / And I am all one Fury."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1700, 1702

"Who made my Father be as he was, Royal, / And stamp't the Mark of Greatness on my Soul."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1700, 1702

"No! my disdainful Soul shall struggle out / And start at once from its dishonour'd Mansion."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1700, 1702

"This Gloom of horrid Night suits well my Soul, / Love, Sorrow, Conscious Worth, and Indignation, / Stir mad Confusion in my lab'ring Breast, / And I am all o're Chaos."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1700, 1702

"Ten thousand dismal Fancies crowd my Thoughts."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1700, 1702

"A Beam of Hope, / Strikes thro' my Soul, like the first Infant Light, / That glanc'd upon the Chaos."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1700, 1702

"I wage not War with fair ones; / But wish you would efface those ugly Thoughts, / That live in your Remembrance to perplex you; / Let Joy, the native of your Soul return, / And Love's gay God sit smiling in your Eyes, / As e'rst he did."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1704

"Erect your schemes with as much method and skill as you please; yet, if the materials be nothing but dirt, spun out of your own entrails (the guts of modern brains), the edifice will conclude at last in a cobweb; the duration of which, like that of other spiders’ webs, may be imputed to their be...

— Swift, Jonathan (1667-1745)