Date: 1773

Souls may be ripened in "our northern sky"

— Barbauld, Anna Letitia [née Aikin] (1743-1825)

Date: 1773

Toil and danger "feed and ripen minds" (not "meats and drinks" or "balmy airs, and vernal suns and showers")

— Barbauld, Anna Letitia [née Aikin] (1743-1825)

Date: 1784

The partial Muse, has from my earliest hours / Smil'd on the rugged path I'm doom'd to tread, / And still with sportive hand has snatch'd wild flowers, / To weave fantastic garlands for my head: / But far, far happier is the lot of those / Who never learn'd her dear delusive art; / Which, while i...

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1784

"Not death itself thine empire can destroy; / Towards thee, even then, we turn the languid eye; / Still trust in thee to bid our memory bloom, / And scatter roses round the silent tomb."

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1788

"These various movements of her mind were not commented on, nor were the luxuriant shoots restrained by culture."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"An extreme dislike took root in her mind; the sound of his name made her turn sick; but she forgot all, listening to Ann's cough, and supporting her languid frame."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"Her delicacy did not restrain her, for her dislike to her husband had taken root in her mind long before she knew Henry."

— Wollstonecraft, Mary (1759-1797)

Date: 1788

"Nothing was a stronger proof of the deep root which his passion had taken in his heart, than the influence Emmeline had obtained over his ungovernable and violent spirit, hitherto unused to controul, and accustomed from his infancy to exert over his own family the most boundless despotism."

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1788

"The seeds of jealousy and mistrust thus skillfully sown, could hardly fail of taking root in an heart so full of sensibility, and a temper so irritable as his."

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1788

"Or, if where savage habit steels / The vulgar mind, one bosom feels / The sacred claim of helpless woe-- / If Pity in that soil can grow; / Pity! whose tender impulse darts / With keenest force on nobler hearts; / As flames that purest essence boast, / Rise highest when they tremble most."

— Williams, Helen Maria (1759-1827)