Quote

Better to hunt in fields, for health unbought, Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught, The wise, for cure, on exercise depend God never made his work for man to mend.

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
Wise
Cures
Draught
Better
Doctor
Mend
Work
Doctors
Fees
Made
Fields
Hunt
Never
Exercise
Hunts
Men
Depends
Fitness
Healthy
Cure
Unbought
Health
Depend
Nauseous

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Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.
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We must beat the iron while it is hot, but we may polish it at leisure.
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Whatever is, is in its causes just.
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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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If passion rules, how weak does reason prove!
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Welcome, thou kind deceiver! Thou best of thieves who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves.
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So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.
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Love reckons hours for months, and days for years and every little absence is an age.
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Parting is worse than death it is death of love!
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Virtue without success is a fair picture shown by an ill light but lucky men are favorites of heaven all own the chief, when fortune owns the cause.
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Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble Honour but an empty bubble Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee.
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Among our crimes oblivion may be set.
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When a man's life is under debate, The judge can ne'er too long deliberate.
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How blessed is he, who leads a country life, Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife! Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage, Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age: All who deserve his love, he makes his own And, to be lov'd himself, needs only to be known.
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What I have left is from my native spring I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks.
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I saw myself the lambent easy light Gild the brown horror, and dispel the night.
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Farewell, too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own.
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A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind.
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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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