Date: 1703

"If it be so, this is our last Farewel, / And these the parting Pangs which Nature feels, / When Anguish rends the Heart-strings--Oh! my Daughter."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"Nothing but Blood can make the Expiation, / And cleanse the Soul from inbred, deep Pollution."

— 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)

Date: 1706

"Behold that! that!--more dreadful than Medusa, / It drives my Soul back to her inmost Seats, / And freezes every stiff'ning Limb to Marble."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: November 25, 1707; 1708

"Oh Seofrid! do'st thou not wonder much, / And pity my weak Temper, when thou seest me / Thus in a Moment chang'd from Hot to Cold, / My active Fancy glowing now with Hopes, / Anon thus drooping; Death in my pale Visage, / My Heart, and my chill Veins, all freezing with Despair."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"Of equal Elements, / Without one jarring Atom was she form'd / And Gentleness, and Joy, make up her Being."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"Never! By those chast Lights above, I swear, / My Soul shall never know Pollution more."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"His ductile Reason will be wound about, / Be led and turn'd again, say and unsay, / Receive the Yoak, and yeild exact Obedience."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"Was our Reason given / For such a Use! to be thus puff'd about / Like a dry Leaf, an idle Straw, a Feather, / The Sport of every whifling Blast that blows?"

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"'Tis all in vain, this Rage that tears thy Bosom, / Like a poor Bird that flutters in its Cage, / Thou beat'st thy self to Death."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)