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Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.

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
Death
Ends
Mournful
Kind
Woes
Shuts
Woe
Grave
Graves
Scene

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I'm a little wounded, but I am not slain I will lay me down to bleed a while. Then I'll rise and fight again.
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The thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man.
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Dead men tell no tales.
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Fowls, by winter forced, forsake the floods, and wing their hasty flight to happier lands.
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Railing in other men may be a crime, But ought to pass for mere instinct in him: Instinct he follows and no further knows, For to write verse with him is to transprose.
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Tis Fate that flings the dice, And as she flings Of kings makes peasants, And of peasants kings.
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But how can finite grasp Infinity?
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Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.
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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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You see through love, and that deludes your sight, As what is straight seems crooked through the water.
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Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.
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The conscience of a people is their power.
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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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If one must be rejected, one succeed, make him my lord within whose faithful breast is fixed my image, and who loves me best.
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Either be wholly slaves or wholly free.
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