John Dryden Quotes
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Wit will shineThrough the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
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They say everything in the world is good for something.
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Since ev’ry man who lives is born to die,And none can boast sincere felicity,With equal mind, what happens, let us bear,Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care.Like pilgrims, to th' appointed place we tend;The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
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As sure as a gun.
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Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.
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A man is to be cheated into passion, but to be reasoned into truth.
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Nor can his blessed soul look down from heaven,Or break the eternal sabbath of his rest.
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By education most have been misled; So they believe, because they were bred. The priest continues where the nurse began, And thus the child imposes on the man.
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Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.
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Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.
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… not judging truth to be in nature better than falsehood, but setting a value upon both according to interest.
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Not only hating David, but the king.
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With all this bulk there's nothing lost in Og,For every inch that is not fool is rogue :A monstrous mass of fuul corrupted matter,As all the devils had spew'd to make the baiter.When wine has given him courage to blaspheme,He curses God, but God before curst him ;And, if man could have reason, none has more.That made his paunch so rich, and him so poor.
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When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.
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A man so various, that he seemed to beNot one, but all mankind's epitome;Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,Was everything by starts, and nothing long;But, in the course of one revolving moon,Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.
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The trumpet's loud clangorExcites us to arms.
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But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be;Within that circle none durst walk but he.
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Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own; he who, secure within, can say, tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.
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My next desire is, void of care and strife,To lead a soft, secure, inglorious life:A country cottage near a crystal flood,A winding valley, and a lofty wood.
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I well believe, thou wouldst be great as he;For every man's a fool to that degree:All wish the dire prerogative to kill;Ev'n they would have the power who want the will.
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The rest to some faint meaning make pretense,But Shadwell never deviates into sense.Some beams of wit on other souls may fall,Strike through and make a lucid interval;But Shadwell's genuine night admits no ray,His rising fogs prevail upon the day.
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Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense,But good men starve for want of impudence.
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With how much ease believe we what we wish!
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Fate, and the dooming gods, are deaf to tears.