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Pleasure never comes sincere to man but lent by heaven upon hard usury.

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
Upon
Comes
Hard
Never
Usury
Men
Lent
Sincere
Pleasure
Heaven

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For what can power give more than food and drink, To live at ease, and not be bound to think?
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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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Happy, happy, happy pair! None but the brave deserves the fair.
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One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it.
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Sweet is pleasure after pain.
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I'm a little wounded, but I am not slain I will lay me down to bleed a while. Then I'll rise and fight again.
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When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay. Tomorrow's falser than the former day.
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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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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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I am resolved to grow fat and look young till forty, and then slip out of the world with the first wrinkle and the reputation of five-and-twenty.
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Ever a glutton, at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.
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But when to sin our biased nature leans, The careful Devil is still at hand with means And providently pimps for ill desires.
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Ev'n wit's a burthen, when it talks too long.
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Secret guilt by silence is betrayed.
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Parting is worse than death it is death of love!
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They first condemn that first advised the ill.
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Home is the sacred refuge of our life.
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Seas are the fields of combat for the winds but when they sweep along some flowery coast, their wings move mildly, and their rage is lost.
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Ill news is wing'd with fate, and flies apace.
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Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.
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