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Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I.

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
Sex
Lies
Rest
Wife
Lying
Epitaph

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What passion cannot music raise and quell!
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The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.
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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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He made all countries where he came his own.
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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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Desire of power, on earth a vicious weed, Yet, sprung from high, is of celestial seed: In God 'tisglory and when men aspire, 'Tis but a spark too much of heavenly fire.
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Humility and resignation are our prime virtues.
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Love is love's reward.
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Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease.
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A coward is the kindest animal 'Tis the most forgiving creature in a fight.
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The people have a right supreme To make their kings, for Kings are made for them. All Empire is no more than Pow'r in Trust, Which when resum'd, can be no longer just. Successionm for the general good design'd, In its own wrong a Nation cannot bind.
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They first condemn that first advised the ill.
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The Jews, a headstrong, moody, murmuring race.
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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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Who climbs the grammar-tree, distinctly knows Where noun, and verb, and participle grows.
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I never saw any good that came of telling truth.
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If you are for a merry jaunt, I will try, for once, who can foot it farthest.
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Interest makes all seem reason that leads to it.
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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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How easy 'tis, when Destiny proves kind, With full-spread sails to run before the wind!
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