Date: February 22, 1723

"Nature on their unpolish'd marble prints / Much tenderer sentiments, than some can boast / Who call them barbarous."

— Fenton, Elijah (1683-1730)

Date: February 22, 1723

"Can the Queen / Pierce to the close recesses of the soul? / Are thoughts there visible, like children's toys / Kept in a chrystal case?"

— Fenton, Elijah (1683-1730)

Date: 1723, 1725

"Reflection was unhing'd; the noble Seat of Memory fill'd with Chimera's and disjointed Notions; wild and confus'd Ideas whirl'd in his distracted Brain; and all the Man, except the Form, was changed."

— Haywood [née Fowler], Eliza (1693?-1756)

Date: 1723, 1740

"My Tongue has slipp'd, and quite deceiv'd my Heart, / That melts like Wax before your hottest Anger"

— Sheffield, John, first duke of Buckingham and Normanby (1647-1721)

Date: 1724-6

"Even the men of business, who are really so when in London; whether it be at the Exchange, the Alley, or the Treasury-Offices, and the Court; yet here they look as if they had left all their London thoughts behind them, and had separated themselves to mirth and good company; as if they came hith...

— Defoe, Daniel (1660?-1731)

Date: 1724

"But what is conscience?--a thin empty name, / That terrifies, like ghosts, by fancy rais'd."

— Savage, Richard (1697/8-1743)

Date: 1724

"Your passions late were wing'd, like vengeful whirlwinds, / Now they sink, sighing, to a gale of sorrow!"

— Savage, Richard (1697/8-1743)

Date: 1724

"All my fierce passions rise with that reflection, / Inward they rage--a winding train takes fire, / The flashy blaze runs swift thro' ev'ry vein, / And my brain splits with agony!"

— Savage, Richard (1697/8-1743)

Date: 1724

"My thoughts are furies all!--and turn upon me! / I feel their whips!--They lash me with remorse! / My brain grows hot!--Hell glows in my mad bosom!"

— Savage, Richard (1697/8-1743)

Date: Friday, April 17. 1724

"Their Imaginations are thin, and delicate; and play lightly on the Skirts of Objects: But they are too weak for solid Reasoning; and, in any Thing abstracted, and above the Pitch of the Senses, they are miserably Impotent, and grow presently weary."

— Hill, Aaron (1685-1750)