Date: 1703

"Because my Soul was rudely drawn from yours; / A poor imperfect Copy of my Father, / Where Goodness, and the strength of manly Virtue, / Was thinly planted, and the idle Void / Fill'd up with light Belief, and easie Fondness; / It was, because I lov'd, and was a Woman."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"I have turn'd my Eyes inward upon my self, / Where foul Offence, and Shame have laid all waste; / Therefore my Soul abhors the wretched Dwelling, / And longs to find some better place of Rest."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"By my strong Grief, my Heart ev'n melts within me."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"If it be so, this is our last Farewel, / And these the parting Pangs which Nature feels, / When Anguish rends the Heart-strings--Oh! my Daughter."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1703

"Nothing but Blood can make the Expiation, / And cleanse the Soul from inbred, deep Pollution."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1706

"And therefore wert thou bred to virtuous Knowledge, / And Wisdom early planted in thy Soul; / That thou might'st know to rule thy fiery Passions, / To bind their Rage, and stay their headlong Course."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1706

"Our Souls are out of Tune, we languish all, / Nor does the sweet Returning of the Dawn / Chear with its usual Mirth our drowzy Spirits, / That droop'd beneath the lazy leaden Night."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1706

"Let ev'ry jarring Sound of Discord cease, / Tune all your Thoughts and Words to Beauty's Praise, / To Beauty, that with sweet and pleasant Influence / Breaks Life the Day-star from the chearful East."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1706

"If these known Arts cou'd heal my wounded Soul, / Cou'd recompence the Sorrows of my Days, / Or sooth the Sighings of my lonely Nights; / Well might you hope to woe me to your Wishes, / And win my Heart with your fond Tales of Love."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1706

"'tis for this / My Soul takes Fire within, and vainly urges / My cold enervate Hand t'assert thy Cause."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)