Quote

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.

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
Hours
Shining
Heaven
Fair
Upon
Hour
Foul
Past
Rain
Joys
Power
Mines
Shine
Mine
Possessed
Fate
Spite
Joy
Fairs

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Mere poets are sottish as mere drunkards are, who live in a continual mist, without seeing or judging anything clearly. A man should be learned in several sciences, and should have a reasonable, philosophical and in some measure a mathematical head, to be a complete and excellent poet.
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I maintain, against the enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, may second the precepts.
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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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Politicians neither love nor hate.
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Fortune's unjust she ruins oft the brave, and him who should be victor, makes the slave.
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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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Possess your soul with patience.
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He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
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The blushing beauties of a modest maid.
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At home the hateful names of parties cease, And factious souls are wearied into peace.
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For all have not the gift of martyrdom.
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Of all the tyrannies on human kind the worst is that which persecutes the mind.
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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 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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For granting we have sinned, and that the offence Of man is made against Omnipotence, Some price that bears proportion must be paid, And infinite with infinite be weighed.
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Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes.
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All empire is no more than power in trust.
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Time glides with undiscover'd haste The future but a length behind the past.
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When Misfortune is asleep, let no one wake her.
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And after hearing what our Church can say, If still our reason runs another way, That private reason 'tis more just to curb, Than by disputes the public peace disturb For points obscure are of small use to learn, But common quiet is mankind's concern.
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