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Death in itself is nothing but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.

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
Fear
Death
Nothing

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Many things impossible to thought have been by need to full perfection brought.
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Humility and resignation are our prime virtues.
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Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure,- Sweet is pleasure after pain.
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Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.
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If passion rules, how weak does reason prove!
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When bounteous autumn rears her head, he joys to pull the ripened pear.
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He was exhaled his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
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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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Murder may pass unpunishd for a time, But tardy justice will oertake the crime.
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I maintain, against the enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, may second the precepts.
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Good sense and good-nature are never separated, though the ignorant world has thought otherwise. Good-nature, by which I mean beneficence and candor, is the product of right reason.
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The gods, (if gods to goodness are inclined If acts of mercy touch their heavenly mind), And, more than all the gods, your generous heart, Conscious of worth, requite its own desert!
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The greater part performed achieves the less.
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Whatever is, is in its causes just.
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Arts and sciences in one and the same century have arrived at great perfection and no wonder, since every age has a kind of universal genius, which inclines those that live in it to some particular studies the work then, being pushed on by many hands, must go forward.
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Dancing is the poetry of the foot.
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Government itself at length must fall To nature's state, where all have right to all.
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For all the happiness mankind can gain Is not in pleasure, but in rest from pain.
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For thee, sweet month the groves green liveries wear. If not the first, the fairest of the year For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers. When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.
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They live too long who happiness outlive.
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