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We first make our habits, and then our habits make us.

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
Habits
Habit
Motivational
Inspirational
Character
Firsts
First
Make

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And after hearing what our Church can say, If still our reason runs another way, That private reason 'tis more just to curb, Than by disputes the public peace disturb For points obscure are of small use to learn, But common quiet is mankind's concern.
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Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure,- Sweet is pleasure after pain.
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He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
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He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
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At home the hateful names of parties cease, And factious souls are wearied into peace.
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When Misfortune is asleep, let no one wake her.
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The people have a right supreme To make their kings, for Kings are made for them. All Empire is no more than Pow'r in Trust, Which when resum'd, can be no longer just. Successionm for the general good design'd, In its own wrong a Nation cannot bind.
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Ever a glutton, at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.
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Maintain your post: That's all the fame you need For 'tis impossible you should proceed.
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Beware the fury of a patient man.
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Riches cannot rescue from the grave, which claims alike the monarch and the slave.
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Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I.
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Reason to rule, mercy to forgive: The first is law, the last prerogative. Life is an adventure in forgiveness.
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None, none descends into himself, to find The secret imperfections of his mind: But every one is eagle-ey'd to see Another's faults, and his deformity.
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As when the dove returning bore the mark Of earth restored to the long labouring ark The relics of mankind, secure at rest, Oped every window to receive the guest, And the fair bearer of the message bless'd.
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A narrow mind begets obstinacy we do not easily believe what we cannot see.
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What passion cannot music raise and quell!
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When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.
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There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know.
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A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind.
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