Date: 1703
"Wou'd I had met / Sharpest Convulsions, spotted Pestilences, / Or any other deadly Foe to Life, / Rather than heave beneath this load of Thought."
preview | full record— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)
Date: 1703
"Calista now be wary, / And guard thy Soul's Accesses with Dissembling; / Nor let this Hostile Husband's Eyes explore / The warring Passions, and tumultuous Thoughts, / That rage within thee, and deform thy Reason."
preview | full record— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)
Date: 1703
"Methought ev'n now I mark'd the starts of Guilt, / That shook her Soul; tho' damn'd Dissimulation / Skreen'd her dark Thoughts, and set to publick View / A specious Face of Innocence and Beauty."
preview | full record— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)
Date: 1703
"She's here! yet oh! my Tongue is at a loss, / Teach me, some Pow'r, that happy Art of Speech, / To dress my Purpose up in gracious Words; / Such as may softly steal upon her Soul, / And never waken the Tempestuous Passions."
preview | full record— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)
Date: 1703
"Sorrow, Remorse, and Shame, have torn my Soul, / They hang like Winter on my Youthful Hopes, / And blast the Spring and Promise of my Year."
preview | full record— 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."
preview | full record— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)
Date: 1703
"Nothing but Blood can make the Expiation, / And cleanse the Soul from inbred, deep Pollution."
preview | full record— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)
Date: 1704
"Who then wou'd court the Pomp of guilty Power, / When the Mind sickens at the weary Shew, / And flies to temporary Death for Ease."
preview | full record— Steele, Sir Richard (1672-1729)
Date: 1706
"'Till then be kind, and leave me to my self; / Leave me to vent the Fulness of my Breast, / Pour out the Sorrows of my Soul alone, / And sigh my self, if possible, to Peace."
preview | full record— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)
Date: 1706
"Behold that! that!--more dreadful than Medusa, / It drives my Soul back to her inmost Seats, / And freezes every stiff'ning Limb to Marble."
preview | full record— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)