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Mighty things from small beginnings grow.

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
Power
Things
Love
Impart
Beginnings
Mighty
Grow
Grows
Small

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Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend: Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.
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Order is the greatest grace.
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Of all the tyrannies on human kind the worst is that which persecutes the mind.
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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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Nature meant me A wife, a silly, harmless, household dove, Fond without art, and kind without deceit.
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So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade.
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One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it.
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But love's a malady without a cure.
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Faith is to believe what you do not yet see: the reward for this faith is to see what you believe. Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
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Railing and praising were his usual themes and both showed his judgment in extremes. Either over violent or over civil, so everyone to him was either god or devil.
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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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For all have not the gift of martyrdom.
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A woman's counsel brought us first to woe, And made her man his paradise forego, Where at heart's ease he liv'd and might have been As free from sorrow as he was from sin.
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Ever a glutton, at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.
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Railing in other men may be a crime, But ought to pass for mere instinct in him: Instinct he follows and no further knows, For to write verse with him is to transprose.
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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.
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But 'tis the talent of our English nation, Still to be plotting some new reformation.
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The secret pleasure of a generous act Is the great mind's great bribe.
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They think too little who talk too much.
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With how much ease believe we what we wish!
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