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Lucky men are favorites of Heaven.

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
Favorites
Fortune
Lucky
Heaven
Men

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Joy rul'd the day, and Love the night.
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The longest tyranny that ever sway'd Was that wherein our ancestors betray'd Their free-born reason to the Stagirite [Aristotle], And made his torch their universal light. So truth, while only one suppli'd the state, Grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate.
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You see through love, and that deludes your sight, As what is straight seems crooked through the water.
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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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Virgil, above all poets, had a stock which I may call almost inexhaustible, of figurative, elegant, and sounding words.
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Good Heaven, whose darling attribute we find is boundless grace, and mercy to mankind, abhors the cruel.
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None are so busy as the fool and the knave.
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All habits gather by unseen degrees.
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Trust on and think To-morrow will repay To-morrow's falser than the former day Lies worse and while it says, we shall be blest With some new Joys, cuts off what we possest.
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Murder may pass unpunishd for a time, But tardy justice will oertake the crime.
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Dancing is the poetry of the foot.
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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 blushing beauties of a modest maid.
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The greater part performed achieves the less.
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Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
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They that possess the prince possess the laws.
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Hushed as midnight silence.
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Whatever is, is in its causes just.
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Not sharp revenge, nor hell itself can find, A fiercer torment than a guilty mind, Which day and night doth dreadfully accuse, Condemns the wretch, and still the charge renews.
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A good conscience is a port which is landlocked on every side, where no winds can possibly invade. There a man may not only see his own image, but that of his Maker, clearly reflected from the undisturbed waters.
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