Death only this mysterious truth unfolds, John Dryden More Quotes by John Dryden More Quotes From John Dryden Inspire the Vocal Brass, Inspire; John Dryden firewarpast How easy it is to call rogue and villain, and that wittily! But how hard to make a man appear a fool, a blockhead, or a knave, without using any of those opprobrious terms! Tosparethegrossness ofthenames, and to dothe thing yet moreseverely, isto drawa full face, and tomake the nose and cheeks stand out, and yet not to employ any depth of shadowing. John Dryden foolfacesmen Virgil and Horace [were] the severest writers of the severest age. John Dryden age From plots and treasons Heaven preserve my years, But save me most from my petitioners. Unsatiate as the barren womb or grave; God cannot grant so much as they can crave. John Dryden plotheavenyears And he, who servilely creeps after sense, Is safe, but ne'er will reach an excellence. John Dryden creepsexcellencesafe The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms. John Dryden trumpetsarmsloud Good sense and good nature are never separated; and good nature is the product of right reason. John Dryden good-sensegood-naturereason I saw myself the lambent easy light Gild the brown horror, and dispel the night. John Dryden lightmorningnight For every inch that is not fool, is rogue. John Dryden foolroguescharacter 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. John Dryden oilcarehair And that one hunting, which the Devil design'd For one fair female, lost him half the kind. John Dryden huntingwomendesign The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers. John Dryden woedyingcomplaining A man may be capable, as Jack Ketch's wife said of his servant, of a plain piece of work, a bare hanging; but to makea malefactordiesweetly was only belonging toher husband. John Dryden wifehusbandmen But dying is a pleasure / When living is a pain. John Dryden pleasurepaindying Much malice mingled with a little wit Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ. John Dryden mysteriousmaylittles The unhappy man, who once has trail'd a pen, Lives not to please himself, but other men; Is always drudging, wastes his life and blood, Yet only eats and drinks what you think good. John Dryden menbloodthinking I am reading Jonson's verses to the memory of Shakespeare; an insolent, sparing, and invidious panegyric. John Dryden versesreadingmemories 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. John Dryden writingmaymen Calms appear, when Storms are past; John Dryden stormlovepast As one that neither seeks, nor shuns his foe. John Dryden foe
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