Date: 1793

"Perish the masses for a burning soul, / That never yet extinguish'd half a coal!"

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

Date: 1793

"But wicked man! what does he, carnal wretch, / With all his horse-like passions on full stretch?"

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

Date: w. 1776, 1793

"His pocket and his skull are brothers, / They thrive by borrowing from others; / I thank my stars, with heart sincere, / I was not born to be a Peer."

— Burrell [née Raymond, later Clay], Sophia, Lady Burrell (1750-1802)

Date: 1793

"In fancy's mirror dreadful scenes appear, / Design'd by doubt, and magnified by fear, / There some gay female, frivolous and vain, / Artfully forms the captivating chain; / Makes him the slave of passion and caprice, / Perverts his principles, and wounds his peace."

— Burrell [née Raymond, later Clay], Sophia, Lady Burrell (1750-1802)

Date: 1793

"To paint th' ecstatic tumult of their souls, / The rapture of deliverance from death / Thus threatenting, and the mutual joys of safety, / Description aims not, for too weak her power, / Too faint her colours: diffident she points / To fancy's faithful mirror, and then drops / Her useless pencil."

— Kett, Henry (1761-1825)

Date: June, 1793

"FANCY, sportive goddess, hail! / Fleeting as the vernal gale, / Hail! thou dear illusive power / Changing with the swift-wing'd hour; / Now despairing, now reviving, / Now with tenfold vigour thriving, / Now tormenting, now delighting, / Now in midst of battle fighting."

— Anonymous

Date: June, 1793

"Goddess, with thy wonted force, / Swiftly bear me to the skies / Where the keen-eyed eagle flies, / And with more than mortal might, / Aid my intellectual flight."

— Anonymous

Date: June, 1793

"'Tis fancy, powerful fancy wings / The poet's flight whene'er he sings, / Fancy strikes the living lyre, / Fancy sheds poetic fire!"

— Anonymous

Date: June, 1793

"In short, in every scene [of Shakespeare] appears, Fancy, queen of hopes and fears."

— Anonymous

Date: June, 1793

"When Pope's warbling numbers glide, / Smooth as the unruffled tide; / When the sylphs and sylphids fly, / Thro' the azure of the sky; / When he sports on Windsor plains, / Fancy still unrivall'd reigns."

— Anonymous