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Forgiveness to the injured does belong but they ne'er pardon who have done wrong.

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
Literature
Wrong
Doe
Done
Pardon
Injured
Belong
Forgiveness

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Hushed as midnight silence.
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A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind.
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The secret pleasure of a generous act Is the great mind's great bribe.
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So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade.
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From plots and treasons Heaven preserve my years, But save me most from my petitioners. Unsatiate as the barren womb or grave God cannot grant so much as they can crave.
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I am resolved to grow fat and look young till forty, and then slip out of the world with the first wrinkle and the reputation of five-and-twenty.
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The longest tyranny that ever sway'd Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd Their free-born reason to the Stagirite [Aristotle], And made his torch their universal light. So truth, while only one suppli'd the state, Grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate.
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My right eye itches, some good luck is near.
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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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New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break.
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Prodigious actions may as well be done, by weaver's issue, as the prince's son.
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Fortune's unjust she ruins oft the brave, and him who should be victor, makes the slave.
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Time and death shall depart and say in flying Love has found out a way to live, by dying.
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She feared no danger, for she knew no sin.
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Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.
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