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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.
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
Stills
Doth
Still
Torment
Fiercer
Find
Sharp
Renews
Mind
Charge
Dreadfully
Revenge
Wretch
Guilty
Condemns
Hell
Accuse
Night
Remorse
More quotes by John Dryden
Virgil, above all poets, had a stock which I may call almost inexhaustible, of figurative, elegant, and sounding words.
John Dryden
A good conscience is a port which is landlocked on every side, where no winds can possibly invade. There a man may not only see his own image, but that of his Maker, clearly reflected from the undisturbed waters.
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But 'tis the talent of our English nation, Still to be plotting some new reformation.
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Mankind is ever the same, and nothing lost out of nature, though everything is altered.
John Dryden
A narrow mind begets obstinacy we do not easily believe what we cannot see.
John Dryden
Long pains, with use of bearing, are half eased.
John Dryden
Much malice mingled with a little wit Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ.
John Dryden
Youth, beauty, graceful action seldom fail: But common interest always will prevail And pity never ceases to be shown To him who makes the people's wrongs his own.
John Dryden
not judging truth to be in nature better than falsehood, but setting a value upon both according to interest.
John Dryden
How easy 'tis, when Destiny proves kind, With full-spread sails to run before the wind!
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Ev'n wit's a burthen, when it talks too long.
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Even victors are by victories undone.
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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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My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love in public and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.
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He was exhaled his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
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Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.
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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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All empire is no more than power in trust.
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Truth is the object of our understanding, as good is of our will and the understanding can no more be delighted with a lie than the will can choose an apparent evil.
John Dryden
How happy the lover, How easy his chain, How pleasing his pain, How sweet to discover He sighs not in vain.
John Dryden
