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He made all countries where he came his own.

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
Countries
Came
Country
Made

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For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.
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Farewell, too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own.
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Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.
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Jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine It puts out the disease and makes it show, But has no power to cure.
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Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.
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Sweet is pleasure after pain.
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Heroic poetry has ever been esteemed the greatest work of human nature.
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The gods, (if gods to goodness are inclined If acts of mercy touch their heavenly mind), And, more than all the gods, your generous heart, Conscious of worth, requite its own desert!
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Courage from hearts and not from numbers grows.
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How happy the lover, How easy his chain, How pleasing his pain, How sweet to discover He sighs not in vain.
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A happy genius is the gift of nature.
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Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the' appointed place we tend The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
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Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes.
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An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
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But love's a malady without a cure.
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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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Ev'n wit's a burthen, when it talks too long.
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Imitators are but a servile kind of cattle.
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Politicians neither love nor hate.
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For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.
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