Date: 1745

"His understanding 'scapes the common cloud / Of fumes arising from a boiling breast."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"Each act, each thought, he questions, "What its weight, / Its colour what, a thousand ages hence?" / And what it there appears, he deems it now. / Hence, pure are the recesses of his soul; / The god-like man has nothing to conceal."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"His virtue, constitutionally deep, / Has Habit's firmness, and Affection's flame; / Angels, allied, descend to feed the fire; / And Death, which others slays, makes him a god."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"Canst thou be silent? No; for Wit is thine; / And Wit talks most when least she has to say, / And Reason interrupts not her career."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"Sense is our helmet, Wit is but the plume; / The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; / When cut by Wit, it casts a brighter beam; / Yet, Wit apart, it is a diamond still."

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1745

"There is, I grant, a triumph of the pulse, / A dance of spirits, a mere froth of joy, / Our thoughtless Agitation's idle child, / That mantles high, that sparkles, and expires, / Leaving the soul more vapid than before; / An animal ovation! such as holds / No commerce with our reason, but subsis...

— Young, Edward (bap. 1683, d. 1765)

Date: 1754

"For [Fancy], / The blue ethereal Arch expands; her Table / Spread out with all the Dainties of the Sky, / Imagination's rich Regale."

— Jones, Henry (1721-1770)

Date: 1754

"All these are Reason's Treasures, Stores of Thought; / Reflection's unexhausted Funds, replete / With Matter for her own delightful Task."

— Jones, Henry (1721-1770)

Date: 1754

"O, come; indignant, drive out, far beyond/ The utmost Precincts of the human Breast, / Beyond the Springs of Hope, the Cells of Joy, / And ev'ry Mansion where a Virtue lives; / O drive far off, for ever drive that Bane, / That hideous Pest, engender'd deep in Hell, / Where Stygian Glooms condens...

— Jones, Henry (1721-1770)