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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
Pleasure
Heaven
Upon
Comes
Hard
Never
Usury
Men
Lent
Sincere

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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 scum that rises upmost, when the nation boils.
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But 'tis the talent of our English nation, Still to be plotting some new reformation.
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We first make our habits, and then our habits make us.
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None are so busy as the fool and the knave.
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An hour will come, with pleasure to relate Your sorrows past, as benefits of Fate.
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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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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 gods, (if gods to goodness are inclined If acts of mercy touch their heavenly mind), And, more than all the gods, your generous heart, Conscious of worth, requite its own desert!
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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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Heroic poetry has ever been esteemed the greatest work of human nature.
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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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Love either finds equality or makes it.
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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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Fortune's unjust she ruins oft the brave, and him who should be victor, makes the slave.
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Even kings but play and when their part is done, some other, worse or better, mounts the throne.
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Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.
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Parting is worse than death it is death of love!
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I trade both with the living and the dead, for the enrichment of our native language.
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The brave man seeks not popular applause, Nor, overpower'd with arms, deserts his cause Unsham'd, though foil'd, he does the best he can, Force is of brutes, but honor is of man.
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