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I have a soul that like an ample shield Can take in all, and verge enough for more.

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
Shield
Shields
Verge
Soul
Take
Enough
Like
Quiver
Ample

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None, none descends into himself, to find The secret imperfections of his mind: But every one is eagle-ey'd to see Another's faults, and his deformity.
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Thou spring'st a leak already in thy crown, A flaw is in thy ill-bak'd vessel found 'Tis hollow, and returns a jarring sound, Yet thy moist clay is pliant to command, Unwrought, and easy to the potter's hand: Now take the mould now bend thy mind to feel The first sharp motions of the forming wheel.
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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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Kings fight for empires, madmen for applause.
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Ev'n wit's a burthen, when it talks too long.
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Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes.
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Better one suffer than a nation grieve.
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Who climbs the grammar-tree, distinctly knows Where noun, and verb, and participle grows.
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Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.
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Truth is the object of our understanding, as good is of our will and the understanding can no more be delighted with a lie than the will can choose an apparent evil.
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But 'tis the talent of our English nation, Still to be plotting some new reformation.
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The longest tyranny that ever sway'd Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd Their free-born reason to the Stagirite [Aristotle], And made his torch their universal light. So truth, while only one suppli'd the state, Grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate.
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A happy genius is the gift of nature.
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Trust reposed in noble natures obliges them the more.
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Dead men tell no tales.
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My love's a noble madness.
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Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.
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For age but tastes of pleasures youth devours.
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When bounteous autumn rears her head, he joys to pull the ripened pear.
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