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To so perverse a sex all grace is vain.

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
Perverse
Vain
Sex
Grace

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Good sense and good-nature are never separated, though the ignorant world has thought otherwise. Good-nature, by which I mean beneficence and candor, is the product of right reason.
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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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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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Mere poets are sottish as mere drunkards are, who live in a continual mist, without seeing or judging anything clearly. A man should be learned in several sciences, and should have a reasonable, philosophical and in some measure a mathematical head, to be a complete and excellent poet.
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Silence in times of suffering is the best.
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For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.
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The wretched have no friends.
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Doeg, though without knowing how or why, Made still a blundering kind of melody Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in Free from all meaning whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.
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The true Amphitryon is the Amphitryon where we dine.
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Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.
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I am as free as nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
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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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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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How blessed is he, who leads a country life, Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife! Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage, Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age: All who deserve his love, he makes his own And, to be lov'd himself, needs only to be known.
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The scum that rises upmost, when the nation boils.
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Home is the sacred refuge of our life.
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My whole life Has been a golden dream of love and friendship.
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Among our crimes oblivion may be set.
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Virgil, above all poets, had a stock which I may call almost inexhaustible, of figurative, elegant, and sounding words.
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When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.
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