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For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.

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
Brute
Brutes
Fellows
Danger
Levels
Need
Needs
Men

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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.
John Dryden
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And after hearing what our Church can say, If still our reason runs another way, That private reason 'tis more just to curb, Than by disputes the public peace disturb For points obscure are of small use to learn, But common quiet is mankind's concern.
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My whole life Has been a golden dream of love and friendship.
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For truth has such a face and such a mien, as to be loved needs only to be seen.
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Interest makes all seem reason that leads to it.
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He made all countries where he came his own.
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Youth should watch joys and shoot them as they fly.
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War is a trade of kings.
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The good we have enjoyed from Heaven's free will, and shall we murmur to endure the ill?
John Dryden
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Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend: Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.
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Fortune's unjust she ruins oft the brave, and him who should be victor, makes the slave.
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Griefs assured are felt before they come.
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Dead men tell no tales.
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From plots and treasons Heaven preserve my years, But save me most from my petitioners. Unsatiate as the barren womb or grave God cannot grant so much as they can crave.
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Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine, The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not heaven itself upon the past has power But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
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The winds that never moderation knew, Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew Or out of breath with joy, could not enlarge Their straighten'd lungs or conscious of their charge.
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The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.
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Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure,- Sweet is pleasure after pain.
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Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.
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Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.
John Dryden