Date: 1714

"What charitable Hand will aid me now? / Will stay my failing Steps, support my Ruines, / And heal my wounded Mind with Balmy Comfort?"

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"This foolish Woman hangs about my Heart, / Lingers, and wanders in my Fancy still."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"I own the glorious Subject fires my Breast, / And my Soul's darling Passion stands confest / Beyond or Love's or Friendship's sacred Band, / Beyond my self I prize my Native Land."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"I hold it certain, / This puling whining Harlot rules his Reason, / And prompts his Zeal for Edward's Bastard Brood."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"If she have such Dominion o'er his Heart, / And turn it at her Will; you rule her Fate, / And should, by Inference and apt Deduction, / Be Arbiter of his."

— 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

"Time presses, and a thousand crowding Thoughts / Break in at once; this Way and that they snatch, / They tear my hurry'd Soul. All claim Attention, / And yet not one is heard."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"Thy cruel Scorn had stung me to the Heart, / And set my burning Bosom all in Flames."

— 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)