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So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade.

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
Trade
Poetry
Art
Made
Oxford
London

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But how can finite grasp Infinity?
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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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Government itself at length must fall To nature's state, where all have right to all.
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A brave man scorns to quarrel once a day Like Hectors in at every petty fray.
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Death in itself is nothing but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.
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Tis Fate that flings the dice, And as she flings Of kings makes peasants, And of peasants kings.
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I learn to pity woes so like my own.
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Anger will never disappear so long as thoughts of resentment are cherished in the mind. Anger will disappear just as soon as thoughts of resentment are forgotten.
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A coward is the kindest animal 'Tis the most forgiving creature in a fight.
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Griefs assured are felt before they come.
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With odorous oil thy head and hair are sleek And then thou kemb'st the tuzzes on thy cheek: Of these, my barbers take a costly care.
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Jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine It puts out the disease and makes it show, But has no power to cure.
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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 soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.
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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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Even victors are by victories undone.
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Fowls, by winter forced, forsake the floods, and wing their hasty flight to happier lands.
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Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
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If all the world be worth thy winning. / Think, oh think it worth enjoying: / Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee, / Take the good the gods provide thee.
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If by the people you understand the multitude, the hoi polloi, 'tis no matter what they think they are sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong their judgment is a mere lottery.
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