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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.

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
Heaven
Fair
Success
Luck
Favorites
Fortune
Owns
Light
Picture
Shown
Without
Lucky
Chief
Men
Cause
Chiefs
Virtue
Ill
Causes
Fairs

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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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They that possess the prince possess the laws.
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The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes And gaping mouth, that testified surprise.
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Good sense and good nature are never separated and good nature is the product of right reason.
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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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The poorest of the sex have still an itch To know their fortunes, equal to the rich. The dairy-maid inquires, if she shall take The trusty tailor, and the cook forsake.
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Beware the fury of a patient man.
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Trust reposed in noble natures obliges them the more.
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The elephant is never won by anger nor must that man who would reclaim a lion take him by the teeth.
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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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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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Courage from hearts and not from numbers grows.
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My love's a noble madness.
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There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know.
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For your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
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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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The greater part performed achieves the less.
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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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Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.
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Mankind is ever the same, and nothing lost out of nature, though everything is altered.
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