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If you have lived, take thankfully the past. Make, as you can, the sweet remembrance last.

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
Sweet
Lasts
Last
Past
Take
Thankfully
Make
Remembrance
Gratitude
Lived

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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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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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Ev'n wit's a burthen, when it talks too long.
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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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Seas are the fields of combat for the winds but when they sweep along some flowery coast, their wings move mildly, and their rage is lost.
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Thus, while the mute creation downward bend Their sight, and to their earthly mother ten, Man looks aloft and with erected eyes Beholds his own hereditary skies.
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Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.
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The greater part performed achieves the less.
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Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.
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Imitators are but a servile kind of cattle.
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Death in itself is nothing but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.
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New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break.
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Men's virtues I have commended as freely as I have taxed their crimes.
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The scum that rises upmost, when the nation boils.
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Zeal, the blind conductor of the will.
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The propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action.
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He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.
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