AND
Work title:
"I Will"
returned 29 results(s) in 0.001 seconds
Date: 1666
"The composition of all poems is or ought to be of wit, and wit in the poet, or wit writing (if you will give me leave to use a school distinction), is no other than the faculty of imagination in the writer, which, like a nimble spaniel, beats over and ranges through the field of memory, till it ...
preview | full record— Dryden, John (1631-1700)
Date: 1666
Elocution is " that art of clothing and adorning that thought so found and varied, in apt, significant, and sounding word."
preview | full record— Dryden, John (1631-1700)
Date: 1667
"Had we forgotten His, or to strange Names / Of Idol-gods stretch'd out our suppliant hands, / Should not God know, and visit this in flames, / Who the vast Empire of all hearts commands, / And thoughts, more than we actions, understands?"
preview | full record— Woodford, Samuel (1636-1700)
Date: 1667
"Within my heart Thy [the Lord's] love shall gain, / Such conquests, that the Trophies shall like Heav'n remain"
preview | full record— Woodford, Samuel (1636-1700)
Date: 1667
"From Sons has made you Lords of th' Earth, / And on yours stampt the Portrait of His minde."
preview | full record— Woodford, Samuel (1636-1700)
Date: 1667
" (Your Mind b'ing more transcendent than your State, / For while but Knees to this, Hearts bow to that,)"
preview | full record— Philips [née Fowler], Katherine (1632-1664)
Date: 1672?
"Our Hearts are Paper, Beauty is the Pen, / Which writes our Loves, and blots 'em out agen"
preview | full record— Sedley, Sir Charles (1639-1701)
Date: 1678
"Into his studious Closet to stuff his Lunatick head, since he can get nothing for his belly."
preview | full record— Porter, Thomas (1636-1680)
Date: 1681
"This [sadness] fetters all our Senses, pulleth down / Heav'ns Image, Reason from her rightful Throne / And in her room, by Fancies pow'rful Charm, / Sets up a feigned Ill to work our Harm."
preview | full record— Chamberlayne, Sir James (c.1640-1699)
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)
