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Virgil, above all poets, had a stock which I may call almost inexhaustible, of figurative, elegant, and sounding words.

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
Elegant
Stock
Poets
Poet
Almost
Virgil
Call
Figurative
Words
Inexhaustible
May
Sounding

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Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.
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For truth has such a face and such a mien, as to be loved needs only to be seen.
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Mighty things from small beginnings grow.
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An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
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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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Repentance is but want of power to sin.
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Even kings but play and when their part is done, some other, worse or better, mounts the throne.
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Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble Honour but an empty bubble Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee.
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He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
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New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break.
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Griefs assured are felt before they come.
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Imagination in a poet is a faculty so wild and lawless that, like a high ranging spaniel, it must have clogs tied to it, lest it outrun the judgment. The great easiness of blank verse renders the poet too luxuriant. He is tempted to say many things which might better be omitted, or, at least shut up in fewer words.
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Love reckons hours for months, and days for years and every little absence is an age.
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A brave man scorns to quarrel once a day Like Hectors in at every petty fray.
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Time and death shall depart and say in flying Love has found out a way to live, by dying.
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If passion rules, how weak does reason prove!
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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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The winds are out of breath.
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Secret guilt is by silence revealed.
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The blushing beauties of a modest maid.
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