Date: November 25, 1707; 1708

"I feel my Soul impatient of its Bondage, / Disdaining this unworthy, idle Passion, / And strugling to be free."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: November 25, 1707; 1708

"Now, now it shoots, / It tow'rs upon the Wing to Crowns and Empire; / While Love and Aribert, those meaner Names, / Are left far, far behind, and lost for ever. / So if by chance the Eagle's noble Off-spring, / Ta'en in the Nest, becomes some Peasant's Prize, / Compell'd a while he bears his Cag...

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: November 25, 1707; 1708

"That wrathful Frown, / Your Eyes fierce glancing, and your changing Visage, / Now pale as Death, now purpled o'er with Flame, / Give me to know your Passions are at odds, / And your whole Soul is up in Arms within."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: November 25, 1707; 1708

"Fools that we are! to vex the lab'ring Brain, / And waste decaying Nature thus with Thought; / To keep the weary Spirits waking still; / To goad and drive 'em in eternal Rounds / Of restless wracking Care; 'tis all in vain. / Blind Goddess Chance! henceforth I follow thee."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: November 25, 1707; 1708

"No, I will steel my Heart against thy Pray'r."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: November 25, 1707; 1708

"In vain they lavish all their cruel Arts, / And bind this feeble Body here in vain; / The free, impassive Soul mounts on the Wing, / Beyond the reach of Racks, and tort'ring Flames, / And scorns their Tyranny."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: November 25, 1707; 1708

"Fly swift as Thought, and set her free this Moment, / Or by my injur'd Love, a Name more sacred / Than all your Function knows, your Gods and you, / Your Temples, Altars, and your painted Shrines, / Your holy Trumpery shall blaze together."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: November 25, 1707; 1708

"Call back your Thoughts from each deluding Passion, / And wing your parting Soul for her last Flight."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: November 25, 1707; 1708

"Tho' at the Musick of thy Voice, I own, / My Soul is husht, it sinks into a Calm, / And takes sure Omen of its Peace from thee."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: November 25, 1707; 1708

"Curst be your Looks, your Tongues, and your false Arts, / That cheat our Eyes, and wound our easie Hearts."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)