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Henri Pruniéres commenting on the music of Claude Debussy: He was the incomparable painter of mystery, silence, and the infinite, of the passing cloud, and the sunlit shimmer of the waves—subleties which none before him had been capable of suggesting.

Thursday
Nov 21, 2024

Quotes: 53419
Authors: 9969

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War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble.
John Dryden

Quote Author: John Dryden

John Dryden

John Dryden

John Dryden (August 19 [O.S. August 9] 1631 - May 12 [O.S. May 1] 1700) was an influential English poet, literary critic, translator and playwright, who dominated the literary life of Restoration England to such a point that the period came to be known in literary circles as the Age of Dryden.

Other John Dryden Quotes

Love is love's reward.

When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.

Such subtle covenants shall be made, Till peace itself is war in masquerade.

Dim, as the borrowed beams of moon and stars To lonely, weary, wandering travelers Is reason to the soul.

War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble.

Two gates the silent house of Sleep adorn; Of polished ivory this, that of transparent horn: True visions through transparent horn arise; Through polished ivory pass deluding lies.

And Music shall untune the sky.

The sun, when he from noon declines, And with abated heat less fiercely shines; seems to grow milder as he goes away.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began.

Thou last great Prophet of Tautology.

Set all things in their own peculiar place, And know that order is the greatest grace.

Presence of mind, and courage in distress, Are more than armies to procure success.

Parting is worse than death; it is death of love!

He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.

Words are but pictures of our thoughts.

Great wits are sure to madness near allied And thin partitions do their bounds divide.

For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.

Genius must be born, and never can be taught.

When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat: Yet, fooled with hope, men favor the deceit.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I.

His grandeur he derived from Heaven alone, For he was great, ere fortune made him so.

Honor is but an empty bubble.

Love is a passion Which kindles honor into noble acts.

Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; And every little absence is an age.

Courage from hearts and not from numbers grows.

Look around the habitable world, how few Know their own good, or knowing it, pursue.

Of kings makes peasants, And of peasants kings.

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

Beware the fury of a patient man.

Better to hunt in fields for health unsought, Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. The wise for cure on exercise depend; God never made his work for man to mend.

Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes; When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes.

Enjoy the present smiling hour. And put it out of Fortune's power.

Better shun the bait than struggle in the snare.

Not is the people's judgment always true: The most may err as grossly as the few.

And plenty makes us poor.

All flowers will droop in absences of the sun that waked their sweets.

Where trust is greatest, there treason is in its most horrid shape.

Our author by experience finds it true, 'Tis much more hard to please himself than you.

None but the brave deserves the fair.

Either be wholly slaves or wholly free.

And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

A knock-down argument; 'tis but a word and a blow.

All human things are subject to decay, And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey.

How can finite grasp infinity?

I am as free as nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, When wild in woods the noble savage ran.

It is a madness to make Fortune the mistress of events, Because in herself she is nothing, but is ruled by Prudence.

Drinking is the soldier's pleasure... Sweet is pleasure after pain.

But now the world's o'er stocked with prudent men.

Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.

Accurst ambition, How dearly I have bought you.

But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand, And Fortune's ice prefers to Virtue's land.

Ill habits gather by unseen degrees,— As brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas.

When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind!

And he who servilely creeps after sense, Is safe, but ne’er will reach an excellence.

He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.

How blessed is he, who leads a country life, Unvex’d with anxious cares, and void of strife! Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage, Enjoy’d his youth, and now enjoys his age: All who deserve his love, he makes his own; And, to be lov’d himself, needs only to be known.

Death, in itself, is nothing; but we fear, To be we know not what, we know not where.

So softly death succeeded life in her, She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.

All delays are dangerous in war.

Unsham’d, though foil’d he does the best he can.

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls must dive below....

They say everything in the world is good for something.

I am devilishly afraid, that’s certain; but ... I’ll sing, that I may seem valiant.

Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.

A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pygmy-body to decay, And o'er-inform'd the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity; Pleas'd with the danger, when the waves went high He sought the storms.

Freedom which in no other land will thrive, Freedom an English subject’s sole prerogative.

Men met each other with erected look, The steps were higher that they took; Friends to congratulate their friends made haste, And long inveterate foes saluted as they pass'd.

To see and to be seen, in heaps they run; Some to undo, and some to be undone.

His tribe were God Almighty's gentlemen.

So over violent, or over civil, That every man with him was God or Devil.

Happy the man, and happy he alone, He, who can call today his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Better to hunt in fields for health unbought Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught. The wise for cure on exercise depend; God never made his work for man to mend.

Him of the western dome, whose weighty sense Flows in fit words and heavenly eloquence.

Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy, Thou tyrant of the mind!

Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn. The first in loftiness of thought surpass'd; The next, in majesty; in both the last. The force of Nature could no further go; To make a third, she join'd the former two.

And threat'ning France, plac'd like a painted Jove, Kept idle thunder in his lifted hand.

What judgment I had increases rather than diminishes; and thoughts, such as they are, come crowding in so fast upon me, that my only difficulty is to choose or reject; to run them into verse or to give them the other harmony of prose.

For who can be secure of private right, If sovereign sway may dissolv’d by might? Nor is the people’s judgment always true: The most may err as grossly as the few.

A knock-down argument: 't is but a word and a blow.

Look round the habitable world! how few Know their own good; or knowing it, pursue.

A thing well said will be wit in all languages.

I trade both with the living and the dead, for the enrichment of our native language.

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.

But love’s a malady without a cure.

Great wits are sure to madness near allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide.

There is a pleasure sure In being mad which none but madmen know.

And new-laid eggs, which Baucis' busy care Turn'd by a gentle fire and roasted rare.

Thus, while the mute creation downward bend Their sight, and to their earthly mother ten, Man looks aloft; and with erected eyes Beholds his own hereditary skies.

A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome; Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts, and nothing long; But in the course of one revolving moon Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.

Mere poets are sottish as mere drunkards are, who live in a continual mist, without seeing or judging anything clearly. A man should be learned in several sciences, and should have a reasonable, philosophical and in some measure a mathematical head, to be a complete and excellent poet.

Men are but children of a larger growth.

Whate'er he did was done with so much ease, In him alone 't was natural to please.

One of the greatest, most noble, and most sublime poems which either this age or nation has produced.

Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long,— Even wonder'd at, because he dropp'd no sooner. Fate seem'd to wind him up for fourscore years, Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more; Till like a clock worn out with eating time, The wheels of weary life at last stood still.

Better one suffer than a nation grieve.

Not Heav’n itself upon the past has pow’r; But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

Youth, beauty, graceful action seldom fail: But common interest always will prevail; And pity never ceases to be shown To him who makes the people’s wrongs his own.

The people's prayer, the glad diviner's theme, The young men's vision, and the old men's dream!

For all the happiness mankind can gain Is not in pleasure, but in rest from pain.

Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure,— Sweet is pleasure after pain.

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

But ‘tis the talent of our English nation, Still to be plotting some new reformation.

O gracious God! how far have we Profan'd thy heavenly gift of poesy!

All empire is no more than power in trust.

We must beat the iron while it is hot, but we may polish it at leisure.

Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.

Resolv'd to ruin or to rule the state.

Reason to rule, but mercy to forgive: The first is law, the last prerogative.

Welcome, thou kind deceiver! Thou best of thieves; who, with an easy key, Dost open life, and, unperceived by us, Even steal us from ourselves.

The secret pleasure of a generous act Is the great mind’s great bribe.

For secrets are edged tools, And must be kept from children and from fools.

As one that neither seeks, nor shuns his foe.

Made still a blund'ring kind of melody; Spurr'd boldly on, and dashed through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in.

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

He is the very Janus of poets; he wears almost everywhere two faces; and you have scarce begun to admire the one, ere you despise the other.

He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul.... He was naturally learn’d; he needed not the spectacles of books to read Nature; he looked inwards, and found her there.... He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit degenerating in to clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some occasion is presented to him.

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

Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.

In squandering wealth was his peculiar art: Nothing went unrewarded, but desert. Beggar’d by fools, whom still he found too late: H had his jest, and they had his estate.

Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.

The fool of nature stood with stupid eyes And gaping mouth, that testified surprise.

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

If by the people you understand the multitude, the hoi polloi, ‘tis no matter what they think; they are sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong; their judgment is a mere lottery.

God never made His work for man to mend.

Our vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes care To grant, before we can conclude the prayer: Preventing angels met it half the way, And sent us back to praise, who came to pray.

For those whom God to ruin has design'd, He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind.

He trudg'd along unknowing what he sought, And whistled as he went, for want of thought.

For truth has such a face and such a mien As to be lov’d needs only to be seen.

And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honour but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee.

Whatever is, is in its causes just.

Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she’s at rest, and so am I.

Her wit was more than man, her innocence a child.

Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.

An horrible stilness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.

Dancing is the poetry of the foot.

Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped; And they have kept it since by being dead.

For every inch that is not fool is rogue.

Forgiveness to the injured does belong; But they ne'er pardon who have done the wrong.

Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease.

When I consider life, 't is all a cheat. Yet fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit; 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. Strange cozenage! none would live past years again, Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain; And from the dregs of life think to receive What the first sprightly running could not give.

What precious drops are those Which silently each other's track pursue, Bright as young diamonds in their infant dew?

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