John Dryden Quotes

A very merry, dancing, drinking,
Laughing, quaffing, and unthinkable time.

If confidence presage a victory, Eugenius, in his own opinion, has already triumphed over the Ancients: nothing seems more easy to him than to overcome those whom it is our greatest praise to have imitated well; for we do not only build upon their foundation, but by their models.

Plots, true or false, are necessary things,
To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings.

Your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.

Lord of yourself, uncumbered with a wife.

But far more numerous was the herd of such,
Who think too little, and who talk too much.

Pains of love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are.

For truth has such a face and such a mien
As to be loved needs only to be seen.

But Shakespeare's magic could not copied be;
Within that circle none durst walk but he.

Possess your soul with patience.

Milton's Paradise Lost is admirable; but am I therefore bound to maintain, that there are no flats amongst his elevations, when it is evident he creeps along sometimes for above an hundred lines together? Cannot I admire the height of his invention, and the strength of his expression, without defending his antiquated words, and the perpetual harshness of their sound? It is as much commendation as a man can bear, to own him excellent; all beyond it is idolatry.

Give, you gods, Give to your boy, your Caesar, The rattle of a globe to play withal, This gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off; I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra.

Nay, tho' our Atoms shou'd revolve by chance,
And matter leape into the former dance;
Tho' time our Life and motion cou'd restore,
And make our Bodies what they were before,
What gain to us wou'd all this bustle bring,
The new made man wou'd be another thing;
When once an interrupting pause is made,
That individual Being is decay'd.
We, who are dead and gone, shall bear no part
In all the pleasures, nor shall feel the smart,
Which to that other Mortal shall accrew,
Whom of our Matter Time shall mould anew.

All things are hush'd, as Nature's self lay dead,
The Mountains seem to nod their drowsy head;
The little Birds in dreams their Songs repeat,
And sleeping Flowers, beneath the night-dew sweat;
Even Lust and Envy sleep.

She knows her man, and when you rant and swear,
Can draw you to her with a single hair.