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Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure,- Sweet is pleasure after pain.

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
Bacchus
Treasure
Sweet
Rich
Pleasure
Pain

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My whole life Has been a golden dream of love and friendship.
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Repentance is but want of power to sin.
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Riches cannot rescue from the grave, which claims alike the monarch and the slave.
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Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble Honour but an empty bubble Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee.
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Reason to rule, mercy to forgive: The first is law, the last prerogative. Life is an adventure in forgiveness.
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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.
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Either be wholly slaves or wholly free.
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Ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace.
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For thee, sweet month the groves green liveries wear. If not the first, the fairest of the year For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers. When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.
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None are so busy as the fool and the knave.
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Love works a different way in different minds, the fool it enlightens and the wise it blinds.
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More liberty begets desire of more The hunger still increases with the store
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I am devilishly afraid, that's certain but ... I'll sing, that I may seem valiant.
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Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.
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Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.
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Pleasure never comes sincere to man but lent by heaven upon hard usury.
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For all have not the gift of martyrdom.
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Zeal, the blind conductor of the will.
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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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Bets at first were fool-traps, where the wise like spiders lay in ambush for the flies.
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