Date: November, 1682
"And as those nightly tapers disappear / When day's bright lord ascends our hemisphere / So pale grows reason at religion's sight: / So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light."
preview | full record— Dryden, John (1631-1700)
Date: November, 1682
"Some few, whose lamp shone brighter, have been led / From cause to cause, to Nature's secret head."
preview | full record— Dryden, John (1631-1700)
Date: November, 1682
"In pleasure some their glutton souls would steep; / But found their line too short, the well too deep; / And leaky vessels which no bliss could keep.
preview | full record— Dryden, John (1631-1700)
Date: November, 1682
"Thus anxious thoughts in endless circles roll, / Without a centre where to fix the soul."
preview | full record— Dryden, John (1631-1700)
Date: November, 1682
"Heav'n's early care prescrib'd for every age; / First, in the soul, and after, in the page."
preview | full record— Dryden, John (1631-1700)
Date: November, 1682
"They, who the written rule had never known, / Were to themselves both rule and law alone: / To nature's plain indictment they shall plead; / And, by their conscience, be condemn'd or freed."
preview | full record— Dryden, John (1631-1700)
Date: November, 1682
"Then those who follow'd reason's dictates right; Liv'd up, and lifted high their natural light; / With Socrates may see their Maker's Face, / While thousand rubric-martyrs want a place."
preview | full record— Dryden, John (1631-1700)
Date: 1682
"Disdaining those Bonds that the Predicants wear, / My Soul is a Monarch as free as the Air."
preview | full record— Coppinger, Matthew (fl. 1682)
Date: 1682
"Each step you take, hales me a step more near / To the cold Grave: (nor is't an idle Fear) / For know, my Soul to you is chained fast, / And if you make such cruel, fatal hast, / Must quit it's Seat, and be so far unkind, / To leave my fainting, breathless Trunk behind."
preview | full record— Ephelia (fl. 1679-1682)
Date: 1704
"Erect your schemes with as much method and skill as you please; yet, if the materials be nothing but dirt, spun out of your own entrails (the guts of modern brains), the edifice will conclude at last in a cobweb; the duration of which, like that of other spiders’ webs, may be imputed to their be...
preview | full record— Swift, Jonathan (1667-1745)