Date: 1786

"You confound their abilities by the severity of their servitude: for as a spark of fire, if crushed by too great a weight of incumbent fuel, cannot be blown into a flame, but suddenly expires, so the human mind, if depressed by rigorous servitude, cannot be excited to a display of those facultie...

— Clarkson, Thomas (1760–1846)

Date: 1786

"If at this recital his indignation should arise, let him consider it as the genuine production of nature; that she recoiled at the horrid thought, and that she applied instantly a torch to his breast to kindle his resentment."

— Clarkson, Thomas (1760–1846)

Date: December 11, 1786; 1787

"Because these Arts, in their highest province, are not addressed to the gross senses, but to the desires of the mind, to that spark of divinity which we have within, impatient of being circumscribed and pent up by the world which is about us."

— Reynolds, Joshua (1723-1792)

Date: 1788

" My panting soul is all on fire"

— Whalley, Thomas Sedgwick (1746-1828)

Date: 1788

"For they have keen affections, kind desires, / Love strong as death, and active patriot fires; / All the rude energy, the fervid flame, / Of high-souled passions, and ingenuous shame: / Strong but luxuriant virtues boldly shoot / From the wild vigour of a savage root."

— More, Hannah (1745-1833)

Date: 1788, 1803

"Oh! may good angels, kindling in thy breast / The lamp of reason, guard thee from their snares!"

— Downman, Hugh (1740-1809)

Date: 1788

"The ardent imagination of Delamere instantly caught fire."

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1788

"A ray of fire seemed to flash across the imagination of Delamere, and to inflame all his hopes."

— Smith, Charlotte (1749-1806)

Date: 1788

"His breast, where nobler passions burn, / In honest poverty, would spurn / That wealth, Oppression can bestow, / And scorn to wound a fetter'd foe."

— Williams, Helen Maria (1759-1827)

Date: 1788

"Or, if where savage habit steels / The vulgar mind, one bosom feels / The sacred claim of helpless woe-- / If Pity in that soil can grow; / Pity! whose tender impulse darts / With keenest force on nobler hearts; / As flames that purest essence boast, / Rise highest when they tremble most."

— Williams, Helen Maria (1759-1827)