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But love's a malady without a cure.

John Dryden

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John Dryden
Age: 68 †
Born: 1631
Born: August 7
Died: 1700
Died: May 12
Hymnwriter
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Translator
Aldwincle
Northamptonshire
Malady
Cure
Cures
Literature
Without
Love

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I am as free as nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
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Lucky men are favorites of Heaven.
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A good conscience is a port which is landlocked on every side, where no winds can possibly invade. There a man may not only see his own image, but that of his Maker, clearly reflected from the undisturbed waters.
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Youth should watch joys and shoot them as they fly.
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A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind.
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But when to sin our biased nature leans, The careful Devil is still at hand with means And providently pimps for ill desires.
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Faith is to believe what you do not yet see: the reward for this faith is to see what you believe. Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
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Government itself at length must fall To nature's state, where all have right to all.
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He made all countries where he came his own.
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If by the people you understand the multitude, the hoi polloi, 'tis no matter what they think they are sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong their judgment is a mere lottery.
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The propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action.
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Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease.
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No government has ever been, or can ever be, wherein time-servers and blockheads will not be uppermost.
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The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes And gaping mouth, that testified surprise.
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If all the world be worth thy winning. / Think, oh think it worth enjoying: / Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee, / Take the good the gods provide thee.
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If one must be rejected, one succeed, make him my lord within whose faithful breast is fixed my image, and who loves me best.
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Light sufferings give us leisure to complain.
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An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
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The end of satire is the amendment of vices by correction and he who writes honestly is no more an enemy to the offender than the physician to the patient when he prescribes harsh remedies.
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Want is a bitter and a hateful good, Because its virtues are not understood Yet many things, impossible to thought, Have been by need to full perfection brought. The daring of the soul proceeds from thence, Sharpness of wit, and active diligence Prudence at once, and fortitude it gives And, if in patience taken, mends our lives.
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