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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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The wretched have no friends.
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We first make our habits, and then our habits make us.
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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 coward is the kindest animal 'Tis the most forgiving creature in a fight.
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Youth, beauty, graceful action seldom fail: But common interest always will prevail And pity never ceases to be shown To him who makes the people's wrongs his own.
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For granting we have sinned, and that the offence Of man is made against Omnipotence, Some price that bears proportion must be paid, And infinite with infinite be weighed.
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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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Love either finds equality or makes it.
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My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love in public and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.
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Forgiveness to the injured does belong but they ne'er pardon who have done wrong.
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He invades authors like a monarch and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him.
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Restless at home, and ever prone to range.
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Interest makes all seem reason that leads to it.
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Much malice mingled with a little wit Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ.
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Deathless laurel is the victor's due.
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Bets at first were fool-traps, where the wise like spiders lay in ambush for the flies.
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By viewing nature, nature's handmaid art, Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow: Thus fishes first to shipping did impart, Their tail the rudder, and their head the prow.
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When Misfortune is asleep, let no one wake her.
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Thou spring'st a leak already in thy crown, A flaw is in thy ill-bak'd vessel found 'Tis hollow, and returns a jarring sound, Yet thy moist clay is pliant to command, Unwrought, and easy to the potter's hand: Now take the mould now bend thy mind to feel The first sharp motions of the forming wheel.
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Farewell, too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own.
John Dryden