John Dryden Quotes
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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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Of seeming arms to make a short essay,Then hasten to be drunk - the business of the day.
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As sure as a gun.
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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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A man is to be cheated into passion, but to be reasoned into truth.
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A very merry, dancing, drinking,Laughing, quaffing, and unthinkable time.
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Wit will shineThrough the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
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Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.
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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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Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.
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Not only hating David, but the king.
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Ill habits gather unseen degrees, as brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.
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But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be;Within that circle none durst walk but he.
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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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When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.
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Fate, and the dooming gods, are deaf to tears.
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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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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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Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense,But good men starve for want of impudence.
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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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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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The trumpet's loud clangorExcites us to arms.
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But love's a malady without a cure.
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Behold him setting in his western skies,The shadows lengthening as the vapours rise.