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Ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace.

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
Wing
Ill
Wings
Fate
News
Apace
Flies

More quotes by John Dryden

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As one that neither seeks, nor shuns his foe.
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The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.
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He wants worth who dares not praise a foe.
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Doeg, though without knowing how or why, Made still a blundering kind of melody Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in Free from all meaning whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.
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Not sharp revenge, nor hell itself can find, A fiercer torment than a guilty mind, Which day and night doth dreadfully accuse, Condemns the wretch, and still the charge renews.
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A farce is that in poetry which grotesque (caricature) is in painting. The persons and actions of a farce are all unnatural, and the manners false, that is, inconsistent with the characters of mankind and grotesque painting is the just resemblance of this.
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Parting is worse than death it is death of love!
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Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.
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Dancing is the poetry of the foot.
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Welcome, thou kind deceiver! Thou best of thieves who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves.
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But how can finite grasp Infinity?
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All empire is no more than power in trust.
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He who would search for pearls must dive below.
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Even kings but play and when their part is done, some other, worse or better, mounts the throne.
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Murder may pass unpunishd for a time, But tardy justice will oertake the crime.
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Having mourned your sin, for outward Eden lost, find paradise within.
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Mighty things from small beginnings grow.
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Better one suffer than a nation grieve.
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For thee, sweet month the groves green liveries wear. If not the first, the fairest of the year For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers. When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.
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Love either finds equality or makes it.
John Dryden