Quote

The propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action.

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
Hidden
Drama
Thoughts
Words
Confusedly
Action
Vehemence
Play
Beauties
Propriety
Judged

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Or hast thou known the world so long in vain?
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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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He invades authors like a monarch and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him.
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How happy the lover, How easy his chain, How pleasing his pain, How sweet to discover He sighs not in vain.
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Dancing is the poetry of the foot.
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Honor is but an empty bubble.
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Beware the fury of a patient man.
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Virtue without success is a fair picture shown by an ill light but lucky men are favorites of heaven all own the chief, when fortune owns the cause.
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[T]he Famous Rules which the French call, Des Trois Unitez , or, The Three Unities, which ought to be observ'd in every Regular Play namely, of Time, Place, and Action.
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Love works a different way in different minds, the fool it enlightens and the wise it blinds.
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As one that neither seeks, nor shuns his foe.
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They, who would combat general authority with particular opinion, must first establish themselves a reputation of understanding better than other men.
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From plots and treasons Heaven preserve my years, But save me most from my petitioners. Unsatiate as the barren womb or grave God cannot grant so much as they can crave.
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For your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
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For every inch that is not fool, is rogue.
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He wants worth who dares not praise a foe.
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Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.
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Secret guilt is by silence revealed.
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If you are for a merry jaunt, I will try, for once, who can foot it farthest.
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Railing in other men may be a crime, But ought to pass for mere instinct in him: Instinct he follows and no further knows, For to write verse with him is to transprose.
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