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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
Place
Ends
Pilgrims
Life
Inns
Like
Appointed
World
Pilgrim
Tend
Journey
Death

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A good conscience is a port which is landlocked on every side, where no winds can possibly invade. There a man may not only see his own image, but that of his Maker, clearly reflected from the undisturbed waters.
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Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.
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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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Ever a glutton, at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.
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And that one hunting, which the Devil design'd For one fair female, lost him half the kind.
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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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An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
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