Date: 1693

"Yet, thy moist Clay is pliant to Command; / Unwrought, and easie to the Potter's hand: / Now take the Mold; now bend thy Mind to feel / The first sharp Motions of the Forming Wheel."

— Dryden, John (1631-1700)

Date: 1693

"Musick alone inflames my drooping Mind; / Nay, she would mount her Wings, and fly away, / Not be confin'd to this dull Lump of Clay, / Did not the Charms of Musick most divine / Unite, and things so wide, so close combine."

— Hawkshaw, Benjamin (1671/2-1738)

Date: 1694, 1708

"At length, with more prevailing rage possest, / Her jealous honour steels her daring breast / The thoughts of injur'd fame new courage gave, / And nicer virtue now confirms her brave."

— Yalden, Thomas (1670-1736)

Date: 1694

"Thy mighty Soul, stamp'd of Heav'n's noblest Coin, / More Pure than Gold, more Precious and Divine, / Does in thy Everlasting Vertues shine."

— Cobb, Samuel (bap. 1675, d. 1713)

Date: 1697, 1700

"Nor think thy force too small, too weak thy Mind / Because to Clay unequally confined; / Its Power is wondrous Great; how small a Mass / Of Gold or Gems, exceeds vast Heaps of Brass?"

— Manilius, Marcus (fl. 1st Century AD), Creech, Thomas (1659-1700)

Date: 1697

"As fire this figure hardens, made of clay, / And this of wax with fire consumes away; / Such let the soul of cruel Daphnis be--"

— Dryden, John (1631-1700); Virgil (70 B.C. - 19 B.C.)

Date: 1697

"Thy Heart of Gold I do append, To this my Marble Breast,"

— Cleland, William (1661?-1689)

Date: 1697

"What ever brought him here, or took him hence / It was no mean, or common influence, / Of Heavens best mettal, that inform'd his soul, / And made all vertue, but a blubr'd scrol / Of his great mind."

— Cleland, William (1661?-1689)

Date: 1697

"Our Senses to the Mind while lodg'd in Clay, / Do all their various Images convey. / Things that we tast, and feel, and see, afford / The Seeds of Thought with which our Minds are stor'd."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)

Date: 1697

"At such Reflections do's not Nature start, / And try at every Spring to touch your Heart? / Do's not soft Pity's fire begin to burn, / Do not your yearning Bowels in you turn? / In such a case Breasts arm'd with temper'd Steel / And Hearts of Marble, should impression feel."

— Blackmore, Sir Richard (1654-1729)