Date: 1610

Souls may "by our first touch, take in / The poisonous tincture of original sin"

— Donne, John (1572-1631)

Date: 1642, 1655, 1668

"O could I flow like thee, and make thy stream / My great example, as it is my theme! / Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull, / Strong without rage, without ore-flowing full."

— Denham, John, Sir (1615-1669)

Date: 1681

"The mind, that ocean where each kind / Does straight its own resemblance find, / Yet it creates, transcending these, / Far other worlds, and other seas"

— Marvell, Andrew (1621-1678)

Date: 1687

"This Heart of mine, now wreck'd upon despair, / Was once as free and careless as the Air; / In th' early Morning of my tender years, / E're I was sensible of Hopes and Fears, / It floated in a Sea of Mirth and Ease, / And thought the World was only made to please; / No adverse Wind had ever stop...

— Cutts, John, Baron Cutts of Gowran (1660/1-1707)

Date: 1695

"His high Design was with his Heav'nly Light, / To chase away th' Impenetrable Night, / That cover'd this lost World, and re-inspire / Man's frozen Breast with fresh Celestial Fire"

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"Th'impetuous Stress of Passion bears me down, / And the high tyde dos sinking Reason drown."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"Let Love's strong Flame by its Celestial Art / To fill my Eyes, dissolve and melt my Heart; / As Central Fire advances watry Steams / Which from the Mountains spring in Crystal Streams."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"Lord, strike this Marble Heart, thy powerful Stroke / Will make a Flood gush from the cleaving Rock. / O draw all Nature's Sluces up, and drain / Her Magazines, which liquid Stores contain."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"When Lucifer observ'd the Pagans flee, / And the great Briton crown'd with Victory, / O'er-boiling Rage his lab'ring Mind possest, /And thoughts of deep Revenge o'erwhelm'd his Breast."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1699

"On these the Soul, as on some flowing tide, / Must sit, and on the swelling Billows ride; / Hurry'd away, for how can be withstood / Th' Impetuous Torrent of the boyling blood?"

— Pomfret, John (1667-1702)