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Good Heaven, whose darling attribute we find is boundless grace, and mercy to mankind, abhors the cruel.

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
Cruel
Mercy
Whose
Mankind
Abhors
Grace
Attribute
Heaven
Boundless
Find
Darling
Good
Attributes

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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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Revealed religion first informed thy sight, and reason saw not till faith sprung to light.
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And write whatever Time shall bring to pass With pens of adamant on plates of brass.
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Lucky men are favorites of Heaven.
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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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When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.
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Beauty is nothing else but a just accord and mutual harmony of the members, animated by a healthful constitution.
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Zeal, the blind conductor of the will.
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All empire is no more than power in trust.
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Who climbs the grammar-tree, distinctly knows Where noun, and verb, and participle grows.
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Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble Honour but an empty bubble Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee.
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Love is love's reward.
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A farce is that in poetry which grotesque (caricature) is in painting. The persons and actions of a farce are all unnatural, and the manners false, that is, inconsistent with the characters of mankind and grotesque painting is the just resemblance of this.
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The conscience of a people is their power.
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If one must be rejected, one succeed, make him my lord within whose faithful breast is fixed my image, and who loves me best.
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Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.
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Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.
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Hushed as midnight silence.
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They first condemn that first advised the ill.
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How happy the lover, How easy his chain, How pleasing his pain, How sweet to discover He sighs not in vain.
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