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I saw myself the lambent easy light Gild the brown horror, and dispel the night.

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
Easy
Night
Light
Gild
Dispel
Brown
Horror
Saws
Morning

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If we from wealth to poverty descend, Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend.
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An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
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Welcome, thou kind deceiver! Thou best of thieves who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves.
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All habits gather by unseen degrees.
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When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.
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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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For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.
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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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Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend: Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.
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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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The gods, (if gods to goodness are inclined If acts of mercy touch their heavenly mind), And, more than all the gods, your generous heart, Conscious of worth, requite its own desert!
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He was exhaled his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
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For your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
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Doeg, though without knowing how or why, Made still a blundering kind of melody Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in Free from all meaning whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.
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Imitation pleases, because it affords matter for inquiring into the truth or falsehood of imitation, by comparing its likeness or unlikeness with the original.
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Good Heaven, whose darling attribute we find is boundless grace, and mercy to mankind, abhors the cruel.
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Kings fight for empires, madmen for applause.
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The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.
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If one must be rejected, one succeed, make him my lord within whose faithful breast is fixed my image, and who loves me best.
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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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