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Much malice mingled with a little wit Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ.

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
Wit
Mysterious
Perhaps
Littles
May
Mingled
Little
Writ
Much
Censure
Malice

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A woman's counsel brought us first to woe, And made her man his paradise forego, Where at heart's ease he liv'd and might have been As free from sorrow as he was from sin.
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The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.
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Desire of power, on earth a vicious weed, Yet, sprung from high, is of celestial seed: In God 'tisglory and when men aspire, 'Tis but a spark too much of heavenly fire.
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Wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
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Old age creeps on us ere we think it nigh.
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My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love in public and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.
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Bets at first were fool-traps, where the wise like spiders lay in ambush for the flies.
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For all the happiness mankind can gain Is not in pleasure, but in rest from pain.
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The bravest men are subject most to chance.
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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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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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An ugly woman in a rich habit set out with jewels nothing can become.
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By viewing nature, nature's handmaid art, Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow: Thus fishes first to shipping did impart, Their tail the rudder, and their head the prow.
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When Misfortune is asleep, let no one wake her.
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Light sufferings give us leisure to complain.
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A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind.
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So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.
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Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.
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The wretched have no friends.
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