Date: 1718

"Should you at length decide the doubtful War, / Renounce to Virtue, and for Vice declare, / You'll ne'er in Triumph captive Reason lead, / On Conscience wholly conquer'd never tread."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1718

"That dreadful Worm may long enchanted lie, / And roll'd in Volumes sleep, but cannot die; / Rousing at Times, indignant 'twill exert / Immortal Rage, and sting you to the Heart."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1718

"Call to your Aid the Arts of Earth and Hell, / Th' upbraiding Guest within you'll ne'er expel."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1718

"Should you presumptuous, quit your safer Ground, / And seek the utmost Lines, which Vertue bound, / And on the Frontier to engage the Foe, With Reason 's weak collected Forces go, / You'll soon those nice, ill-guarded Limits pass, / Throw down your Arms, and fond her Feet embrace, / In her soft ...

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1718

"The Foe has secret Friends within your Breast, / Perfidious Passions, which dissemble Rest / All these, should you approach her Camp too near, / Rising in Arms, against you will declare."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1718

"By this strong Party lurking in your Heart, / Reason seduc'd, will to her Side desert."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1718

"You from your Breast must root Religion's Weed, / Not only sin, but disbelieve your Creed."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1718

"May not this cheering Breath, this soothing Air, / Nourish too fast Vain-Glory's secret Root, / And make its rank pernicious Branches shoot, / Till on your Mind they baneful Blossoms spread, / And drop malignant Dews on Virtue's tender Head?"

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1718

"And now the fair Ideas, which possest / Your Mind, by loose and vicious Thoughts opprest, / How will you wing your Way to Realms above, / And feast your Soul with Extasies of Love"

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1721

"My Heart do's like soft Wax relent, / And midst my Bowels flow"

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)