Date: 1722

"Vertues, and Vices, are to Realms confin'd: / And, Climates give a Tincture to the Mind."

— Philips, Ambrose (1674-1749)

Date: 1722

"Now boiling high / With Injuries;--with Outrages!--that burn, / That set the very suffering Soul on Fire!"

— Philips, Ambrose (1674-1749)

Date: 1722

"Blush rather, that you are a Slave to Passion; / Subservient to the Wildness of your Will; / Which, like a Whirlwind, tears up all your Vertues; / And gives you not the Leisure to consider."

— Philips, Ambrose (1674-1749)

Date: 1722

"Consider; Gwendolen, my lasting Passion; / A Passion, that, through Time, takes deeper Root; / A Love, that, spight of Absence, hourly grows; / In spight even of Despair:--Yet, will I not / Despair; since Fortune favours thus my Hopes."

— Philips, Ambrose (1674-1749)

Date: 1722

"And yet, whate'er I do, my Hopes are blasted. / That this fierce Combat in my Heart were over!"

— Philips, Ambrose (1674-1749)

Date: 1723

"Can'st say what diff'rent Turns the Spirits take, / When they of diff'rent Kinds Impressions make; / What vital Springs those Spirits in their Flight / Strike to cause Torment, what to give Delight."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1723

"Thou know'st the secret Soul's imperial Throne / Surrounded with thick Darkness, like thy own, / Where she to all the Senses Audience gives, / Appoints their Tasks, their Messages receives, / And passes Judgement in her Sov'reign Court / On every Envoy's true or false Report / How her sole Nod...

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1723

"Thou [God] only can'st the wond'rous Links descry / That Minds unbody'd to a Body tye."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1723

"Thou see'st from whence her Colours Fancy takes, / Of what Materials she her Pencil makes / By which she paints her Scenes with such Applause, / And in the Brain ten thousand Landskips draws."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1723

"The Cells, and little Lodgings, Thou canst see / In Mem'ry's Hoards and secret Treasury; / Dost the dark Cave of each Idea spy, / And see'st how rang'd the crouded Lodgers lye; / How some, when beckon'd by the Soul, awake, / While peaceful Rest their uncall'd Neighbours take."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)