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Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.
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
Life
Inns
Like
Appointed
World
Pilgrim
Tend
Journey
Death
Place
Ends
Pilgrims
More quotes by John Dryden
Among our crimes oblivion may be set.
John Dryden
Honor is but an empty bubble.
John Dryden
Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.
John Dryden
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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They live too long who happiness outlive.
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Virtue in distress, and vice in triumph make atheists of mankind.
John Dryden
Not sharp revenge, nor hell itself can find, A fiercer torment than a guilty mind, Which day and night doth dreadfully accuse, Condemns the wretch, and still the charge renews.
John Dryden
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.
John Dryden
Of all the tyrannies on human kind the worst is that which persecutes the mind.
John Dryden
We find few historians who have been diligent enough in their search for truth it is their common method to take on trust what they help distribute to the public by which means a falsehood once received from a famed writer becomes traditional to posterity.
John Dryden
Jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine It puts out the disease and makes it show, But has no power to cure.
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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.
John Dryden
Hushed as midnight silence.
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Restless at home, and ever prone to range.
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Pleasure never comes sincere to man but lent by heaven upon hard usury.
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I have a soul that like an ample shield Can take in all, and verge enough for more.
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The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.
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Repentance is but want of power to sin.
John Dryden
I strongly wish for what I faintly hope like the daydreams of melancholy men, I think and think in things impossible, yet love to wander in that golden maze.
John Dryden
Every language is so full of its own proprieties that what is beautiful in one is often barbarous, nay, sometimes nonsense, in another.
John Dryden
