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The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroke the air; And though the sound had parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.

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Jun 14, 2025

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About 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.

Popular John Dryden Quotes

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

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.

Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease.

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

For every inch that is not fool is rogue.

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

Dancing is the poetry of the foot.

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever is, is in its causes just.

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.

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

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

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

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

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.

God never made His work for man to mend.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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

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.

As one that neither seeks, nor shuns his foe.

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

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

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.

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

Resolv'd to ruin or to rule the state.

Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.

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

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

All empire is no more than power in trust.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

Better one suffer than a nation grieve.

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.

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

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

Men are but children of a larger growth.

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.

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.

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.

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

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

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

But love’s a malady without a cure.

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.

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

A thing well said will be wit in all languages.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

His tribe were God Almighty's gentlemen.

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

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.

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

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.

Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.

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

They say everything in the world is good for something.

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

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

All delays are dangerous in war.

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

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

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.

He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.

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

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

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

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

Accurst ambition, How dearly I have bought you.

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

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

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

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

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

How can finite grasp infinity?

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

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

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.

And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.

Either be wholly slaves or wholly free.

None but the brave deserves the fair.

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

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

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

And plenty makes us poor.

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

Better shun the bait than struggle in the snare.

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

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

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.

Beware the fury of a patient man.

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

Of kings makes peasants, And of peasants kings.

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

Courage from hearts and not from numbers grows.

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

Love is a passion Which kindles honor into noble acts.

Honor is but an empty bubble.

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

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

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

Genius must be born, and never can be taught.

For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.

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

Words are but pictures of our thoughts.

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

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

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

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

Thou last great Prophet of Tautology.

From harmony, from heavenly harmony This universal frame began.

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

And Music shall untune the sky.

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.

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

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

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

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

Love is love's reward.

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