Date: 1714

"Was our Reason given / For such a Use! to be thus puff'd about / Like a dry Leaf, an idle Straw, a Feather, / The Sport of every whifling Blast that blows?"

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"Time presses, and a thousand crowding Thoughts / Break in at once; this Way and that they snatch, / They tear my hurry'd Soul. All claim Attention, / And yet not one is heard."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"Thy cruel Scorn had stung me to the Heart, / And set my burning Bosom all in Flames."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"'Tis all in vain, this Rage that tears thy Bosom, / Like a poor Bird that flutters in its Cage, / Thou beat'st thy self to Death."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"The most, such Iron Hearts we are, and such / The base Barbarity of Human Kind, / With Insolence and lewd Reproach pursu'd her, / Hooting and Railing, and with Villainous Hands / Gathering the Filth from out the common Ways, / To hurl upon her Head."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"Have you examin'd / Into your inmost Heart, and try'd at leisure / The several secret Springs that move the Passions? / Has Mercy fix'd her Empire there so sure, / That Wrath and Vengeance never may return?"

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)

Date: 1714

"Oh! thou hast set my busy Brain at work, / And now she musters up a Train of Images, / Which to preserve my Peace I had cast aside, / And sunk in deep Oblivion."

— Rowe, Nicholas (1674-1718)