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He who trusts a secret to his servant makes his own man his master.

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
Men
Trusts
Secrecy
Servant
Master
Masters
Secret
Makes

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By viewing nature, nature's handmaid art, Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow: Thus fishes first to shipping did impart, Their tail the rudder, and their head the prow.
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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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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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Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure,- Sweet is pleasure after pain.
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Forgiveness to the injured does belong but they ne'er pardon who have done wrong.
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Deathless laurel is the victor's due.
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Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the' appointed place we tend The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
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Farewell, too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own.
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The greater part performed achieves the less.
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For every inch that is not fool, is rogue.
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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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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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Bets at first were fool-traps, where the wise like spiders lay in ambush for the flies.
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But love's a malady without a cure.
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If the faults of men in orders are only to be judged among themselves, they are all in some sort parties for, since they say the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we be sure that they will be impartial judges?
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The true Amphitryon is the Amphitryon where we dine.
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But when to sin our biased nature leans, The careful Devil is still at hand with means And providently pimps for ill desires.
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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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When a man's life is under debate, The judge can ne'er too long deliberate.
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Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.
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