Quotes by John Dryden
Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.
Like a led victim‚ to my death I'll go‚
And‚ dying‚ bless the hand that gave the blow.
Whatever is, is in its causes just.
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew
His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
The sword within the scabbard keep‚
And let mankind agree.
This is the porcelain clay of humankind.
Genius must be born, and never can be taught.
Pains of love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are.
Music is inarticulate poesy
Our vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes care
To grant, before we can conclude the prayer:
'''Preventing angels met it half the way,
And sent us back to praise, who came to pray.'''
Here lies my wife:here let her lie!
Now she's at rest, and so am I.
They say everything in the world is good for something.
Fairest Isle, all isles excelling,
Seat of pleasures, and of loves;
Venus here will choose her dwelling,
And forsake her Cyprian groves.
A very merry, dancing, drinking,
Laughing, quaffing, and unthinkable time.
Look round the habitable world: how few
Know their own good‚ or knowing it‚ pursue.
By viewing Nature, Nature's handmaid Art, Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow.
Be kind to my remains; and oh defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.
I am as free as Nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.
There is a pleasure sure, In being mad which none but madmen know.
Better to hunt in fields‚ for health unbought‚
Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.
The wise‚ for cure‚ on exercise depend;
God never made his work for man to mend.
A knockdown argument: 'tis but a word and a blow.
Ill habits gather by unseen degrees —
As brooks make rivers‚ rivers run to seas.
O gracious God! how far have we
Profaned thy heavenly gift of poesy!
Lord of yourself, uncumbered with a wife.
I am reading Jonson's verses to the memory of Shakespeare; an insolent, sparing, and invidious panegyric...
Death in itself is nothing; but we fear To be we know not what, we know not where.
Words, once my stock, are wanting to commend
So great a poet and so good a friend.
Men met each other with erected look,
The steps were higher that they took;
Friends to congratulate their friends made haste,
And long inveterate foes saluted as they passed.
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