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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
Blown
Roses
Sweetness
Rose
Hold
Lasts
Last

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There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know.
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The propriety of thoughts and words, which are the hidden beauties of a play, are but confusedly judged in the vehemence of action.
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The conscience of a people is their power.
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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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So over violent, or over civil that every man with him was God or Devil.
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Dead men tell no tales.
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None are so busy as the fool and the knave.
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If we from wealth to poverty descend, Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend.
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New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break.
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Nature meant me A wife, a silly, harmless, household dove, Fond without art, and kind without deceit.
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Fiction is of the essence of poetry as well as of painting there is a resemblance in one of human bodies, things, and actions which are not real, and in the other of a true story by fiction.
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And write whatever Time shall bring to pass With pens of adamant on plates of brass.
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The end of satire is the amendment of vices by correction and he who writes honestly is no more an enemy to the offender than the physician to the patient when he prescribes harsh remedies.
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Every age has a kind of universal genius, which inclines those that live in it to some particular studies.
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For truth has such a face and such a mien, as to be loved needs only to be seen.
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Want is a bitter and a hateful good, Because its virtues are not understood Yet many things, impossible to thought, Have been by need to full perfection brought. The daring of the soul proceeds from thence, Sharpness of wit, and active diligence Prudence at once, and fortitude it gives And, if in patience taken, mends our lives.
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And after hearing what our Church can say, If still our reason runs another way, That private reason 'tis more just to curb, Than by disputes the public peace disturb For points obscure are of small use to learn, But common quiet is mankind's concern.
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Then we upon our globe's last verge shall go, And view the ocean leaning on the sky: From thence our rolling Neighbours we shall know, And on the Lunar world securely pry.
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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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