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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
News
Apace
Flies
Wing
Ill
Wings
Fate

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He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
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The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.
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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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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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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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The bravest men are subject most to chance.
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…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky
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When Misfortune is asleep, let no one wake her.
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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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What passion cannot music raise and quell!
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Faith is to believe what you do not yet see: the reward for this faith is to see what you believe. Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
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Dead men tell no tales.
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Trust reposed in noble natures obliges them the more.
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Sweet is pleasure after pain.
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He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
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Arts and sciences in one and the same century have arrived at great perfection and no wonder, since every age has a kind of universal genius, which inclines those that live in it to some particular studies the work then, being pushed on by many hands, must go forward.
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Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.
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But love's a malady without a cure.
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Murder may pass unpunishd for a time, But tardy justice will oertake the crime.
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Men's virtues I have commended as freely as I have taxed their crimes.
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