Nicolas Rowe


English Dramatic Poet

Author Quotes

And one false step entirely damns her fame. In vain with tears the loss she may deplore, in vain look back on what she was before; she sets like stars that fall, to rise no more.

As if Misfortune made the throne her seat,/ And none could be unhappy but the great.

At length the morn and cold indifference came.

From every blush that kindles in thy cheeks, Ten thousand little loves and graces spring To revel in the roses.

Is she not more than painting can express, or youthful poets fancy when they love?

Is this that haughty, gallant, gay Lothario?

When our old Pleasures die, some new One still is nigh; Oh! fair Variety!

Your bounty is beyond my speaking; But though my mouth be dumb, my heart shall thank you.

Death is the privilege of human nature,
and life without it were not worth our taking:
Thither the poor, the pris'ner, and the mourner
fly for relief, and lay the burthens down.

War, the needy bankrupt's last resort.

The wise and active conquer difficulties
by daring to attempt them: sloth and folly
shiver and shrink at sight of toil and hazard,
and make the impossibility they fear.

The narrow soul knows not the godlike glory of forgiving.

The joys of meeting pay the pags of absence,
else who could bear it?

Religion's lustre is, by native innocence
Divinely pure, and simple from all arts;
You daub and dress her like a common mistress,
The harlot of your fancies; and by adding
False beauties, which she wants not, make the world
Suspect her angel's face is foul beneath,
And will not bear all lights.

Habitual evils change not on a sudden,
But many days must pass, and many sorrows;
conscious remorse, and anguish must be felt,
to curb desire, to break the stubborn will,
and work a second nature in the soul,
ere virtue can resume the place she lost.

Are we not one? Are we not join'd by heav'n?
Each interwoven with the other's fate?
Are we not mix'd like streams of meeting rivers
whose blended waters are no more distinguish'd,
but roll into the sea one common flood?

Think not the good, The gentle deeds of mercy thou hast done, Shall die forgotten all; the poor, the prisoner, The fatherless, the friendless, and the widow, Who daily owe the bounty of thy hand, Shall cry to Heaven, and pull a blessing on thee.

Thou hast prevariated with thy friend, By underhand contrivances undone me: And while my open nature trusted in thee, Thou hast stept in between me and my hopes, And ravish'd from me all my soul held dear. Thou hast betray'd me.

Death is the privilege of human nature,
and life without it were not worth our taking.

Guilt is the source of sorrow, 'tis the fiend, Th' avenging fiend, that follows us behind, With whips and stings.

Great minds, like heaven, are pleased in doing good, though the ungrateful subjects of their favors are barren in return.

Malicious slander never would have leisure to search, with prying eyes, for faults abroad, if all, like me, consider’d their own hearts, and wept the sorrows which they found at home.

Rage is the shortest passion of our souls.

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English Dramatic Poet