Quote

The end of satire is the amendment of vices by correction and he who writes honestly is no more an enemy to the offender than the physician to the patient when he prescribes harsh remedies.

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
Remedy
Corrections
Vices
Physician
Honestly
Satire
Patient
Amendment
Prescribes
Enemy
Amendments
Offender
Ends
Physicians
Remedies
Writing
Writes
Correction
Harsh
Offenders

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Ev'n wit's a burthen, when it talks too long.
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Imitators are but a servile kind of cattle.
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What I have left is from my native spring I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks.
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The fortitude of a Christian consists in patience, not in enterprises which the poets call heroic, and which are commonly the effects of interest, pride and worldly honor.
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Virtue in distress, and vice in triumph make atheists of mankind.
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Thus, while the mute creation downward bend Their sight, and to their earthly mother ten, Man looks aloft and with erected eyes Beholds his own hereditary skies.
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If you are for a merry jaunt, I will try, for once, who can foot it farthest.
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Beauty is nothing else but a just accord and mutual harmony of the members, animated by a healthful constitution.
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Railing and praising were his usual themes and both showed his judgment in extremes. Either over violent or over civil, so everyone to him was either god or devil.
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Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.
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The poorest of the sex have still an itch To know their fortunes, equal to the rich. The dairy-maid inquires, if she shall take The trusty tailor, and the cook forsake.
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She feared no danger, for she knew no sin.
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For all have not the gift of martyrdom.
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Every age has a kind of universal genius, which inclines those that live in it to some particular studies.
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The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.
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And write whatever Time shall bring to pass With pens of adamant on plates of brass.
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Mankind is ever the same, and nothing lost out of nature, though everything is altered.
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I am devilishly afraid, that's certain but ... I'll sing, that I may seem valiant.
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More liberty begets desire of more The hunger still increases with the store
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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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