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Ev'n wit's a burthen, when it talks too long.

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
Long
Burthen
Talks
Wit

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Interest makes all seem reason that leads to it.
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He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
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[T]he Famous Rules which the French call, Des Trois Unitez , or, The Three Unities, which ought to be observ'd in every Regular Play namely, of Time, Place, and Action.
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Fowls, by winter forced, forsake the floods, and wing their hasty flight to happier lands.
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Seas are the fields of combat for the winds but when they sweep along some flowery coast, their wings move mildly, and their rage is lost.
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For every inch that is not fool, is rogue.
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The Jews, a headstrong, moody, murmuring race.
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No government has ever been, or can ever be, wherein time-servers and blockheads will not be uppermost.
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We must beat the iron while it is hot, but we may polish it at leisure.
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As when the dove returning bore the mark Of earth restored to the long labouring ark The relics of mankind, secure at rest, Oped every window to receive the guest, And the fair bearer of the message bless'd.
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A brave man scorns to quarrel once a day Like Hectors in at every petty fray.
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Drinking is the soldier's pleasure.
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I am resolved to grow fat and look young till forty, and then slip out of the world with the first wrinkle and the reputation of five-and-twenty.
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The true Amphitryon is the Amphitryon where we dine.
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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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For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.
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The Fates but only spin the coarser clue The finest of the wool is left for you.
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They live too long who happiness outlive.
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None, none descends into himself, to find The secret imperfections of his mind: But every one is eagle-ey'd to see Another's faults, and his deformity.
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Damn'd neuters, in their middle way of steering, Are neither fish, nor flesh, nor good red herring.
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