John Dryden Quotes
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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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Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.
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And plenty makes us poor.
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Behold him setting in his western skies,The shadows lengthening as the vapours rise.
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I can enjoy her while she's kind;But when she dances in the wind,And shakes the wings and will not stay,I puff the prostitute away: The little or the much she gave is quietly resign'd: Content with poverty, my soul I arm; And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.
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The gates of hell are open night and day;Smooth the descent, and easy is the way:But to return, and view the cheerful skies,In this the task and mighty labor lies.
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But love's a malady without a cure.
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Let old Timotheus yield the prize,Or both divide the crown;He rais’d a mortal to the skies;She drew an angel down.
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She hugged the offender, and forgave the offense:Sex to the last.
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Made still a blund'ring kind of melody;Spurred boldly on, and dashed through thick and thin,Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in.Free from all meaning, whether good or bad,And in one word, heroically mad.
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Seek not to know what must not be reveal, for joy only flows where fate is most concealed. A busy person would find their sorrows much more; if future fortunes were known before!
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Thus in a pageant-show a plot is made;And peace itself is war in masquerade.
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Pains of love be sweeter far than all other pleasures are.
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But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little, and who talk too much.
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Of no distemper, of no blast he died,But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long - Even wondered at, because he dropped no sooner.Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years,Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more;Till like a clock worn out with eating time,The wheels of weary life at last stood still.
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With how much ease believe we what we wish!
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I have a soul that like an ample shieldCan take in all, and verge enough for more.
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Three poets, in three distant ages born,Greece, Italy, and England did adorn.The first in loftiness of thought surpassed;The next, in majesty; in both the last.The force of Nature could no further go.To make a third, she joined the former two.
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Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped;And they have kept it since by being dead.
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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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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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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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Reason is a crutch for age, but youth is strong enough to walk alone.
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You see through love, and that deludes your sight, As what is straight seems crooked through the water.