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Restless at home, and ever prone to range.

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
Ever
Prone
Restless
Range
Travel
Home

More quotes by John Dryden

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None, none descends into himself, to find The secret imperfections of his mind: But every one is eagle-ey'd to see Another's faults, and his deformity.
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How easy 'tis, when Destiny proves kind, With full-spread sails to run before the wind!
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Repentance is but want of power to sin.
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What passion cannot music raise and quell!
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If you have lived, take thankfully the past. Make, as you can, the sweet remembrance last.
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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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A knock-down argument 'tis but a word and a blow.
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Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.
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For all have not the gift of martyrdom.
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Heroic poetry has ever been esteemed the greatest work of human nature.
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Drinking is the soldier's pleasure.
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To so perverse a sex all grace is vain.
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Secret guilt is by silence revealed.
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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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The winds that never moderation knew, Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew Or out of breath with joy, could not enlarge Their straighten'd lungs or conscious of their charge.
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As when the dove returning bore the mark Of earth restored to the long labouring ark The relics of mankind, secure at rest, Oped every window to receive the guest, And the fair bearer of the message bless'd.
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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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He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
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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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Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.
John Dryden