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Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.

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
Thou
Rock
Rocks
Art
Wreck
Wrecks
Rhyme

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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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Want is a bitter and a hateful good, Because its virtues are not understood Yet many things, impossible to thought, Have been by need to full perfection brought. The daring of the soul proceeds from thence, Sharpness of wit, and active diligence Prudence at once, and fortitude it gives And, if in patience taken, mends our lives.
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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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If the faults of men in orders are only to be judged among themselves, they are all in some sort parties for, since they say the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we be sure that they will be impartial judges?
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Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.
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Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.
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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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He was exhaled his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
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He with a graceful pride, While his rider every hand survey'd, Sprung loose, and flew into an escapade Not moving forward, yet with every bound Pressing, and seeming still to quit his ground.
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A coward is the kindest animal 'Tis the most forgiving creature in a fight.
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The brave man seeks not popular applause, Nor, overpower'd with arms, deserts his cause Unsham'd, though foil'd, he does the best he can, Force is of brutes, but honor is of man.
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Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.
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My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love in public and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.
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When bounteous autumn rears her head, he joys to pull the ripened pear.
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Every age has a kind of universal genius, which inclines those that live in it to some particular studies.
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My right eye itches, some good luck is near.
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Every language is so full of its own proprieties that what is beautiful in one is often barbarous, nay, sometimes nonsense, in another.
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Virtue in distress, and vice in triumph make atheists of mankind.
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He made all countries where he came his own.
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Old age creeps on us ere we think it nigh.
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