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.
Even kings but play; and when their part is done, some other, worse or better, mounts the throne.
The sooner you treat your son as a man, the sooner he will be one.
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.
I strongly wish for what I faintly hope; like the daydreams of melancholy men, I think and think in things impossible, yet love to wander in that golden maze.
For those whom God to ruin has design'd, He fits for fate, and first destroys their mind.
All objects lose by too familiar a view.
Restless at home, and ever prone to range.
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.
Tis Fate that flings the dice, And as she flings Of kings makes peasants, And of peasants kings.
Or hast thou known the world so long in vain?
There is a proud modesty in merit.
A man is to be cheated into passion, but to be reasoned into truth.
Good sense and good nature are never separated; and good nature is the product of right reason.
Treason is greatest where trust is greatest.
So softly death succeeded life in her, She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.
Murder may pass unpunishd for a time, But tardy justice will oertake the crime.
For all have not the gift of martyrdom.
Fortune, that with malicious joyDoes man her slave oppress,Proud of her office to destroy,Is seldom pleasd to bless.
But dying is a pleasure When living is a pain.
The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.