Date: 1697

"At such Reflections do's not Nature start, / And try at every Spring to touch your Heart? / Do's not soft Pity's fire begin to burn, / Do not your yearning Bowels in you turn? / In such a case Breasts arm'd with temper'd Steel / And Hearts of Marble, should impression feel."

— 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

"What inward Whips my tortur'd Bowels tear? / Fierce Vipers twist their Spires about my Heart, / And Bite, and Sting, and Wound with deadly smart. / With more than Atlas weight my Soul's opprest, / And raging Tempests beat along my breast: / Corroding Flames eat thro' my burning veins, / And all ...

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"Conscience enrag'd a fiercer Ravager, / Than ravening Vultures, Did his Bowels tear. / Around his Veins envenom'd Adders clung, / And to the Heart the tortur'd Monarch stung. / Vengeance Divine upon his Soul was pour'd, / And unextinguish'd Flames his Life devour'd."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1699

"Reason's a Taper, which but faintly burns: / A Languid Flame that glows and dies by turns: / We see't a while, and but a little way / We travel by its Light, as Men by Day; / But quickly dying, it forsakes us soon; / Like Morning Stars that never stay till Noon."

— Pomfret, John (1667-1702)

Date: 1700

"Reason's a Taper, which but faintly burns, / A languid Flame that glows and dyes by Turns; / We see't a while, and but a little Way, / We Travel by its Light as Men by Day."

— Pomfret, John (1667-1702)

Date: 1700

"E'er since which time, unhappy Lovers see, / Their Passion ne'er can be from Tempests free / It Ebbs and Flows, unfixt, not long the same, / A rowling Ocean of tumultuous Flame."

— Hopkins, John (b. 1675)

Date: 1700

"When I did not see him I cou'd have brib'd a Villain to his Assassination; but his appearance rakes the Embers which have so long layn smother'd in my Breast."

— Congreve, William (1670-1729)