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Interest makes all seem reason that leads to it.

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
Leads
Seem
Interest
Makes
Seems
Reason

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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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Murder may pass unpunishd for a time, But tardy justice will oertake the crime.
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Let Fortune empty her whole quiver on me, I have a soul that, like an ample shield, Can take in all, and verge enough for more Fate was not mine, nor am I Fate's: Souls know no conquerors.
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The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms.
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Jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine It puts out the disease and makes it show, But has no power to cure.
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Light sufferings give us leisure to complain.
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Then we upon our globe's last verge shall go, And view the ocean leaning on the sky: From thence our rolling Neighbours we shall know, And on the Lunar world securely pry.
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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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Bacchus ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain. Bachus's blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure, Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure- Sweet is pleasure after pain.
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Dancing is the poetry of the foot.
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He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
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But 'tis the talent of our English nation, Still to be plotting some new reformation.
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There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know.
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If all the world be worth thy winning. / Think, oh think it worth enjoying: / Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee, / Take the good the gods provide thee.
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Deathless laurel is the victor's due.
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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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Men's virtues I have commended as freely as I have taxed their crimes.
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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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Honor is but an empty bubble.
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