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For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.

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
Cannot
May
Miss
Missing
Art
Nature

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He who would search for pearls must dive below.
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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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My love's a noble madness.
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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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When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.
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No government has ever been, or can ever be, wherein time-servers and blockheads will not be uppermost.
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Ever a glutton, at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.
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Youth should watch joys and shoot them as they fly.
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For every inch that is not fool, is rogue.
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Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.
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They first condemn that first advised the ill.
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Griefs assured are felt before they come.
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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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Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.
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If by the people you understand the multitude, the hoi polloi, 'tis no matter what they think they are sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong their judgment is a mere lottery.
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I learn to pity woes so like my own.
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The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.
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