John Dryden (/ˈdraɪdən/; 19 August [O.S. 9 August] 1631 – 12 May [O.S. 1 May] 1700) was an English poet, literary critic, translator, and playwright who was made England's first Poet Laureate in 1668.
Truth is the object of our understanding, as good is of our will; and the understanding can no more be delighted with a lie than the will can choose an apparent evil.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.
For thee, sweet month; the groves green liveries wear. If not the first, the fairest of the year; For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers. When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.
Some of our philosophizing divines have too much exalted the faculties of our souls, when they have maintained that by their force mankind has been able to find out God.
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.
Fool, not to know that love endures no tie, And Jove but laughs at lovers' perjury.
A narrow mind begets obstinacy; we do not easily believe what we cannot see.
The scum that rises upmost, when the nation boils.
If we from wealth to poverty descend, Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend.
For age but tastes of pleasures youth devours.