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Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.

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
Last
Blown
Roses
Sweetness
Rose
Hold
Lasts

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He who would search for pearls must dive below.
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Railing in other men may be a crime, But ought to pass for mere instinct in him: Instinct he follows and no further knows, For to write verse with him is to transprose.
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An hour will come, with pleasure to relate Your sorrows past, as benefits of Fate.
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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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Every language is so full of its own proprieties that what is beautiful in one is often barbarous, nay, sometimes nonsense, in another.
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A knock-down argument 'tis but a word and a blow.
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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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For every inch that is not fool, is rogue.
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Having mourned your sin, for outward Eden lost, find paradise within.
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The thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man.
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By viewing nature, nature's handmaid art, Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow: Thus fishes first to shipping did impart, Their tail the rudder, and their head the prow.
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Kings fight for empires, madmen for applause.
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Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
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Among our crimes oblivion may be set.
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Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the' appointed place we tend The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
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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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One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it.
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If by the people you understand the multitude, the hoi polloi, 'tis no matter what they think they are sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong their judgment is a mere lottery.
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Men's virtues I have commended as freely as I have taxed their crimes.
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You see through love, and that deludes your sight, As what is straight seems crooked through the water.
John Dryden