Date: 1754

"How often has that tender bosom, whose glory it would have been to melt at another's woe, and to rejoice in acts of kindness and benevolence to her fellow-creatures, been armed by herself (not the mistress, but the slave, of her passions) not with defensive, but offensive, steel!"

— Richardson, Samuel (bap. 1689, d. 1761)

Date: 1754

"How often has that tender bosom, whose glory it would have been to melt at another's woe, and to rejoice in acts of kindness and benevolence to her fellow-creatures, been armed by herself ... not with defensive, but offensive, steel"

— Richardson, Samuel (bap. 1689, d. 1761)

Date: 1754

"My heart is too big for its prison, putting her hand to it: It wants room, methinks"

— Richardson, Samuel (bap. 1689, d. 1761)

Date: 1754

"She had from her chamber-window been shot through the heart by the blind archer, who took his stand on the feather of a military man marching at the head of his company through the market-town in which she lived"

— Richardson, Samuel (bap. 1689, d. 1761)

Date: 1754

"How you wound my soul by the supposition!"

— Richardson, Samuel (bap. 1689, d. 1761)

Date: 1754

"Souls of tinder, discretions of flimsy gauze, that conceal not their folly--One day they will think as I do; and perhaps before they have daughters who will convince them of the truth of my assertion"

— Richardson, Samuel (bap. 1689, d. 1761)

Date: 1754

"My dear Dr. Bartlett, said he, your soul is harmony: I doubt not but all these are in order"

— Richardson, Samuel (bap. 1689, d. 1761)

Date: 1755

"Love, when permitted to reign in a tender bosom, is an absolute tyrant, requiring unconditional obedience, and deeming every instance of discretion and prudence, and even too often of virtue, an act of rebellion against its usurped authority, iii. 77. [61]."

— Richardson, Samuel (bap. 1689, d. 1761)

Date: 1773

"What tho' no Objects strike upon the Sight,-- / Thy Sacred Presence is an inward Light."

— Byrom, John (1692-1763)

Date: 1773

Materialist philosophers describe "scoring Traces on the Paper Soul, / Blank, shaven white, they fill th' unfurnish'd Pate / With new Idéas, none of them innate."

— Byrom, John (1692-1763)