Date: 1700, 1702

"O could I think that he had ever known / My hidden flame, shame and confusion / Would force my Virgin soul to leave her mansion, / And certain Death ensue."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

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

"And all fires those that lighted up my Soul / Glory and bright Ambition languish now, / And leave me dark and gloomy as the Grave."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"If any Spark from Heav'n remain unquench'd / Within her Breast, my Breath perhaps may wake it; / Cou'd I but prosper there, I wou'd not doubt / My Combat with that loud vain-glorious Boaster."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"My fierce, ambitious Soul / Declining droops, and all her Fires grow pale; / Yet let not this Advantage swell thy Pride, / I Conquer'd in my turn, in Love I Triumph'd."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"Wou'd it were Death, as sure 'tis wond'rous like it, / For I am sick of Living, my Soul's pall'd, / She kindles not with Anger or Revenge; / Love was th'informing, active Fire within, / Now that is quench'd, the Mass forgets to move, / And longs to mingle with its kindred Earth."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1704

"For the warmer the Imagination is, the less able we are to Reflect, and consequently the things are the more present to us of which we draw the Images; and therefore when the Imagination is so inflam'd as to render the Soul utterly incapable of reflecting there is no difference between the Image...

— Dennis, John (1658-1734)

Date: 1705

"O'er prostrate Towns and Palaces they pass, / (Now cover'd o'er with Weeds, and hid in Grass) / Breathing Revenge; whilst Anger and Disdain / Fire ev'ry Breast, and boil in ev'ry Vein."

— Addison, Joseph (1672-1719)