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

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Having mourned your sin, for outward Eden lost, find paradise within.
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Politicians neither love nor hate.
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He with a graceful pride, While his rider every hand survey'd, Sprung loose, and flew into an escapade Not moving forward, yet with every bound Pressing, and seeming still to quit his ground.
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Heroic poetry has ever been esteemed the greatest work of human nature.
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Let grace and goodness be the principal loadstone of thy affections. For love which hath ends, will have an end whereas that which is founded on true virtue, will always continue.
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Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.
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He made all countries where he came his own.
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Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the' appointed place we tend The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
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For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.
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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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There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know.
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But 'tis the talent of our English nation, Still to be plotting some new reformation.
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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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Dancing is the poetry of the foot.
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The bravest men are subject most to chance.
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What I have left is from my native spring I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks.
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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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…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky
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If the faults of men in orders are only to be judged among themselves, they are all in some sort parties for, since they say the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we be sure that they will be impartial judges?
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Honor is but an empty bubble.
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