Date: 1792

"Ah me! the passion that my soul misled / Was check'd, not conquer'd; buried, but not dead: / Now bursting from the grave, in evil hour, / It hastens to its prey with fiercer pow'r, / And, vulture-like, with appetite increas'd / It riots on the undiminish'd feast."

— Jerningham, Edward (1727-1812)

Date: 1792

"Now that stern habit throws without controul / Her chain of adamant around thy soul / May not th' unhappy Abelard disclose / (To her who pities most) his train of woes?"

— Jerningham, Edward (1727-1812)

Date: 1792, 1810

"But would you (as Ithuriel, with his spear, / Struck the dire toad, at Eve's invaded ear) / Probe, with your searching pen, the mind's disease?"

— Stockdale, Percival (1736-1811)

Date: 1792, 1810

"'Oh! London! what calamities I see, / 'In my mind's eye," whene'er I think on thee!"

— Stockdale, Percival (1736-1811)

Date: 1792

"Could gold once give thee to my eager arms, / Lo, into guineas would I coin my heart;"

— Wolcot, John, pseud. Peter Pindar, (1738-1819)

Date: w. 1791-2

"But, sent from God, his presence leaves, / To gather home his ripen'd sheaves, / To call encumber'd souls away / From fleshly bonds to boundless day, / (As when the winged hours excite, / And summon forth the morning-light) / And each to convoy to her place / Before the Eternal Father's face."

— Cowper, William (1731-1800)

Date: 1792

"Nay, from the palaces the Virtues fly, / While boldly entering from their beastly stye, / The vulgar passions rush to pig with kings!

— Wolcot, John, pseud. Peter Pindar, (1738-1819)

Date: 1792

"Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, / Our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain."

— Rogers, Samuel (1763-1855)

Date: 1792

"More noble than the sycophant, whose art / Must heap with taudry flowers thy hated shrine; / I envy not the meed thou canst impart / To crown his service--while, tho' Pride combine / With Fraud to crush me--my unfetter'd heart / Still to the Mountain Nymph may offer mine."

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1792

"Much hist'ry in those tell-tale orbs we read! / What though no bigger than a button hole, / Yet what a wondrous window to the soul!"

— Wolcot, John, pseud. Peter Pindar, (1738-1819)