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Good sense and good nature are never separated and good nature is the product of right reason.

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
Good
Never
Separated
Product
Products
Sense
Nature
Reason
Right

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Hushed as midnight silence.
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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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Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure,- Sweet is pleasure after pain.
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With odorous oil thy head and hair are sleek And then thou kemb'st the tuzzes on thy cheek: Of these, my barbers take a costly care.
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Even kings but play and when their part is done, some other, worse or better, mounts the throne.
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Who climbs the grammar-tree, distinctly knows Where noun, and verb, and participle grows.
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The people have a right supreme To make their kings, for Kings are made for them. All Empire is no more than Pow'r in Trust, Which when resum'd, can be no longer just. Successionm for the general good design'd, In its own wrong a Nation cannot bind.
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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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A coward is the kindest animal 'Tis the most forgiving creature in a fight.
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He trudged along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.
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Heroic poetry has ever been esteemed the greatest work of human nature.
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A woman's counsel brought us first to woe, And made her man his paradise forego, Where at heart's ease he liv'd and might have been As free from sorrow as he was from sin.
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not judging truth to be in nature better than falsehood, but setting a value upon both according to interest.
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Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.
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Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.
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And write whatever Time shall bring to pass With pens of adamant on plates of brass.
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My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love in public and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.
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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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