Dryden Quotes

Beware the fury of a patient man.

Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.

We first make our habits, then our habits make us.

I am sore wounded but not slain I will lay me down and bleed a while And then rise up to fight again

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

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

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

Better shun the bait, than struggle in the snare.

He was still thoughtful. 'Do you think any of us ever really knows anyone?' 'Philosophy, Lord Dryden? And yet it's daylight and everyone is still sober.

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.

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

…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky

Secret guilt is by silence revealed.

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

It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.

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.

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

Oh, my goodness, Lord Dryden. You should have seen your face when you said the word work. It’s not counted among the deadly sins, you know.

Dancing is the poetry of the foot.

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.

Must I at length the Sword of Justice draw? Oh curst Effects of necessary Law! How ill my Fear they by my Mercy scan, Beware the Fury of a Patient Man.

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey; Because the first is crazed beyond all hope, The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy.

When I consider Life, 'tis all a cheat; Yet, fooled 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 possesst.

Love is love's reward.

Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.

Let Fortune empty her whole quiver on me, I have a soul that, like an ample shield, Can take in all, and verge enough for more; Fate was not mine, nor am I Fate's: Souls know no conquerors.

Sense memories of you persist and do not seem to abate as the day progresses. It’s disconcerting, Camilla. I don’t like it when my mind plays tricks on me. I would much rather simply have you here in the flesh, to feel and taste and smell with my actual senses. Instead my mind keeps conjuring this false perception of your presence. I think it means I miss you.

None but the brave deserves the fair.

For you may palm upon us new for old: All, as they say, that glitters, is not gold.

Order is the greatest grace

Where'e're I go, my Soul shall stay with thee: 'Tis but my Shadow I take away...

Night came, but unattended with repose. Alone she came, no sleep their eyes to close. Alone and black she came; no friendly stars arose.

Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.

In God ’tis glory: And when men aspire, ’Tis but a spark too much of heavenly fire.

There is a pleasure, sure, In being mad, which none but mad men know John Dryden

There is a pleasure sure In being mad, which none but madmen know. Dryden, The Spanish Friar II, i

the poet John Dryden: Presence of mind, and courage in distress, Are more than armies to procure success.

Love is a passion which kindles honor into noble acts.

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

The winds that never moderation knew, Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew; Or out of breath with joy, could not enlarge Their straighten'd lungs or conscious of their charge.

Miltons were, on the whole, the most enthusiastic poet followers. A flick through the London telephone directory would yield about four thousand John Miltons, two thousand William Blakes, a thousand or so Samuel Colleridges, five hundred Percy Shelleys, the same of Wordsworth and Keats, and a handful of Drydens. Such mass name-changing could have problems in law enforcement. Following an incident in a pub where the assailant, victim, witness, landlord, arresting officer and judge had all been called Alfred Tennyson, a law had been passed compelling each namesake to carry a registration number tattooed behind the ear. It hadn't been well received--few really practical law-enforcement measures ever are.

I’d like for you to tell me who you are.” The man blinked. “David Dryden.” I just looked at him. “Your one o’clock?” “My one o’clock what?” “Date,” the third vamp said, grinning. “For what?” I asked, confused. “Well, you know.” The mage looked a little awkward suddenly. “The usual.” “I think we’ve got a contender here, boys,” the brunet said. “Smooth operator,” the second vamp agreed.

Nor is the people's judgment always true: The most may err as grossly as the few.

None are so busy as the fool and knave.

Camilla, you…my God,” he whispered against my skin, his voice sounding oddly strained. “Sweetheart, do you even know? You’re so perfect and you don’t even realize.” The endearment seeped into me like a touch, warming me as much as his body did. “Did I say a good thing, Professor?” “Oh, you said an amazing thing. Tonight I’m going to make very, very sure you know how much it means to me.

So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky. —John Dryden

For whatsoe'er their sufferings were before, That change they covet makes them suffer more. All other errors but disturb a state; But innovation is the blow of fate.

Hati-hati terhadap kemarahan orang yang penyabar.

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

To die is landing on some distant shore.

words are but pictures of our thoughts

Sometimes, during those same bleak middle-of-the-nights, he held secret fears he never said aloud. Demons had come in the dark, come with the famous Dryden fog that rolled through the town, and taken possession of his lovely, smart, kindhearted wife. And next they'd come for his daughter too.

In the National Geographic movie of my twisted mind, the lion had just leaped on the gazelle, pinned it to the ground and mounted it from behind. Apparently, the devouring could wait. I should point out that these little flights of fancy on my part often involved extremely improbable animal pairings. I blamed cartoons.

Tis Fate that flings the dice, And as she flings Of kings makes peasants, And of peasants kings.

Whatever is, is in its causes just; But purblind man Sees but a part o' th' chain; the nearest link; His eyes not carrying to that equal beam That poises all above.

Two arguing geeks were stoppable. Three arguing geeks created an infinite argument vortex of doom that sucked time down like a black hole.

A professional man of letters, especially if he is much at war with unscrupulous enenemies, is naturally jealous of his privacy... so it was, I think, with Dryden.

Whence but from heaven, could men unskilled in arts, In several ages born, in several parts, Weave such agreeing truths? Or how, or why, Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie?

Arma virumque cano........." *Literally: "I sing of arms and man". __I sing the praises of a man's struggles__” Translation of the opening verses of the first book of Virgil´s Aeneid, by John Dryden( XVII century) "Arms, and the man I sing, who, forc\'d by fate, And haughty Juno\'s unrelenting hate, Expell\'d and exil\'d, left the Trojan shore. Long labors, both by sea and land, he bore, And in the doubtful war, before he won The Latian realm, and built the destin\'d town; His banish\'d gods restor\'d to rites divine, And settled sure succession in his line, From whence the race of Alban fathers come, And the long glories of majestic Rome".

People learn to be hostile,disparaging and manipulative because it works for them.these people expect you to react in certain ways to their style,because in that way they win.if you allow yourself to be sucked into their expectations,you have not only let them get away but you are bound to feel frustrated,helpless and eventuall your bad side of nature will reached its climax.

In the fantasy I spun for myself that night before falling asleep, those deep dark secrets were revealed. That simple touch became a violent embrace, worthy of any bodice-ripper. There were a certain number of gleeful perversions committed on Ivan's battered leather sofa. And at some point in the fantasy, Ivan was a vampire, because I was sort of weird that way. He was a real, Gothic-style, Bram Stoker sort of vampire who bit people as a metaphor for having dubious-consent, alpha-male sex with them, I should point out. None of your modern, sensitive vampires for me. I appreciated the classics.

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance, As those move easiest who have learn'd to dance. 'Tis not enough no harshness gives offence, The sound must seem an echo to the sense. Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows, And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows; But when loud surges lash the sounding shore, The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar. When Ajax strives some rock's vast weight to throw, The line too labours, and the words move slow; Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain, Flies o'er th' unbending corn, and skims along the main. Hear how Timotheus' varied lays surprise, And bid alternate passions fall and rise! While, at each change, the son of Libyan Jove Now burns with glory, and then melts with love; Now his fierce eyes with sparkling fury glow, Now sighs steal out, and tears begin to flow: Persians and Greeks like turns of nature found, And the world's victor stood subdu'd by sound! The pow'r of music all our hearts allow, And what Timotheus was, is Dryden now.

Having said that the unliterary reader attends to the words too little to make anything like a full use of them, I must notice that there is another sort of reader who attends to them far too much and in the wrong way. I am thinking of what I call Stylemongers. On taking up a book, these people concentrate on what they call its ‘style’ or its ‘English’. They judge this neither by its sound nor by its power to communicate but by its conformity to certain arbitrary rules. Their reading is a perpetual witch hunt for Americanisms, Gallicisms, split infinitives, and sentences that end with a preposition. They do not inquire whether the Americanism or Gallicism in question increases or impoverishes the expressiveness of our language. It is nothing to them that the best English speakers and writers have been ending sentences with prepositions for over a thousand years. They are full of arbitrary dislikes for particular words. One is ‘a word they’ve always hated’; another ‘always makes them think of so-and-so’. This is too common, and that too rare. Such people are of all men least qualified to have any opinion about a style at all; for the only two tests that are really relevant—the degree in which it is (as Dryden would say) ‘sounding and significant’—are the two they never apply. They judge the instrument by anything rather than its power to do the work it was made for; treat language as something that ‘is’ but does not ‘mean’; criticise the lens after looking at it instead of through it.

John Dryden wrote that a work of fiction is “a just and lively image of human nature, representing its passions and humours, and the changes of fortune to which it is subject, for the delight and instruction of mankind.

Be thou the first true merit to befriend; His praise is lost, who stays till all commend. Short is the date, alas, of modern rhymes, And 'tis but just to let 'em live betimes. No longer now that golden age appears, When patriarch wits surviv'd a thousand years: Now length of Fame (our second life) is lost, And bare threescore is all ev'n that can boast; Our sons their fathers' failing language see, And such as Chaucer is, shall Dryden be.

His books stood neatly along the glassed-in shelves of four vaultlike oak bookcases: the collected Shakespeare, Jefferson’s essays, Thoreau, Paine, Rousseau, Crevecoeur, Locke, Emerson, Hawthorne, Melville, Twain, Dickens, Tolstoy. Henri Bergson, William James, Darwin, Buffon, Lyell, Charles Lamb, Sir Francis Bacon, Lord Chesterton. Swift, Pope, Defoe, Stevenson, Saint Augustine, Aristotle, Virgil, Plutarch. Plato, Sophocles, Homer, Dryden, Coleridge, Shelley, Shaw. A History of Washington State, A History of the Olympic Peninsula, A History of Island County, Gardens and Gardening, Scientific Agriculture, The Care and Cultivation of Fruit Trees and Ornamental

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

The gates of Hell are open night and day Smooth the descent, and easy is the way But, to return, and view the cheerful skies In this, the task and mighty labor lies.

It was difficult to explain the concept of a party pooper to somebody who didn’t really get the concept of a party

When I consider life, 't is all a cheat; Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit, Trust on and think to-morrow will repay; To-morrow's falser than the former day.

Roused by the lash of his own stubborn tail, Our lion now will foreign foes assail.

Those who write ill, and they who ne'er durst write, Turn critics out of mere revenge and spite.

Two arguing geeks were stoppable. Three arguing geeks created an infinite argument vortex of doom that sucked time down like a black hole. “Okay,

Fools are more hard to conquer than persuade.

If others in the same Glass better see 'Tis for Themselves they look, but not for me: For my Salvation must its Doom receive Not from what others, but what I believe.

Thus like a Captive in an Isle confin'd, Man walks at large, a Pris'ner of the Mind

[The purpose of flight research] is to separate the real from the imagined problems and to make known the overlooked and the unexpected.

Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long — Even wondered at, because he dropped no sooner. Fate seemed 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.

May I see your dance card?” “Don’t you believe me?” She presented it to him with a flourish. He ran his fingers down the list of names. “Hmm . . . Waterburn? Bastard. D’Andre. Definitely a worthless bastard. Lord Camber, a thoroughgoing bastard. Lord Michaelson? Bastard. Peter Cheswick? Bast—” She snatched it from him, laughing. “I wouldn’t dance a waltz with you, anyway, Lord Dryden.” “No?” “You might accidentally lock eyes with Lisbeth Redmond, stumble, and fling me across the room to avoid crushing my feet.

Dim as the borrowed beams of moons and stars To lonely, weary, wandering travelers, Is Reason to the soul; and, as on high Those rolling fires discover but the sky, Not light us here, so Reason's glimmering ray Was lent, not to assure our doubtful way, But guide us upward to a better day.

... he would apologize. He would say all the right things. But he just didn't get it. The next time, nothing would have changed.

What passion cannot music raise or quell

Hold, are you mad? you damn'd confounded Dog, I am to rise, and speak the Epilogue.

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.

In this the seat our Conqueror has given? And this the climate we must change for heaven? These Regions and this realm my wars have got The mournful Empire is the loser's lot.

Delicate petals Flow open to receive me Sweetest kiss of all Holy

Thus, in a Pageant Show, a Plot is made; And Peace it self is War in Masquerade.

If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell

Yet if a Poem have a Genius, it will force its own reception in the World.

Farewell, ungrateful traitor, Farewell, my perjured swain; Let never injured creature Believe a man again. The pleasure of possessing Surpasses all expressing, But 'tis too short a blessing, And love too long a pain. 'Tis easy to deceive us In pity of your pain; But when we love you leave us To rail at you in vain. Before we have descried it There is no bliss beside it, But she that once has tried it Will never love again. The passion we pretended Was only to obtain, But when the charm is ended The charmer you disdain. Your love by ours we measure Till we have lost our treasure, But dying is a pleasure When living is a pain.

O let it be enough what thou hast done, When spotted deaths ran arm’d through every street, With poison’d darts, which not the good could shun, The speedy could outfly, or valiant meet. The living few, and frequent funerals then, Proclaim’d thy wrath on this forsaken place: And now those few who are return’d agen Thy searching judgments to their dwellings trace. From Annus Mirabilis, The Year of Wonders, 1666, by John Dryden

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.

I feel nothing, I hear nothing, my eyes watch the puck, my body moves—like a goalie moves, like I move; I don’t tell it to move or how to move or where, I don’t know it’s moving, I don’t feel it move—yet it moves. And when my eyes watch the puck, I see things I don’t know I’m seeing. I see Larson and Nedomansky as they come on the ice, I see them away from the puck unthreatening and uninvolved. I see something in the way a shooter holds his stick, in the way his body angles and turns, in the way he’s being checked, in what he’s done before that tells me what he’ll do—and my body moves. I let it move. I trust it and the unconscious mind that moves it.

A sigh or tear perhaps she'll give, But love on pity cannot live: Tell her that hearts for hearts were made, And love with love is only paid, Tell her my pains so fast increase That soon it will be past redress; For the wretch that speechless lies, Attends but death to close his eyes.

Well, I’m still not convinced you’re actually people, honey.” “I’m a superior mutation?” He seemed eager to embrace the possibility. “I was thinking more like an alien or a pod person. But sure.” “Superman was an alien. I could live with that.” I shrugged. “I always preferred Clark Kent.” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “I always suspected that Clark Kent was the real personality, and—” “Superman was the disguise,” I chimed in. “Exactly. Lois was such a fool.

When you are a presence, there are many things you need not do, for it is simply understood you can do them. So you don’t do them. You don’t risk what you need not risk, you let others’ imaginations do them for you, for they do them better than you can. Like the man who opens his mouth to prove he’s a fool, often the more you do, the more you look like everyone else.

Creative writer has artistic sensibility. He observes the world like any common men. But his vision observes the world quite differently. He can perceive from life-experience what common man cannot see at all. This experience and observation get imaginative colours with the help of artistic sensibility. He creates a world of imaginative reality. His world is more beautiful and artistic than the real world. He is naturally gifted to create the work which has power to move or transport the reader. He gets his raw material from the life. He is critic of life. Criticism is a task of those who write on the creative writings. The word criticism has been derived from the Greek word Kritikos, which means ‘able to discern and judge’ and whoever does the act of judging is called Critic. Criticism is the art of judging the merits and demerits of creative composition. In the words of Thomas De Quincey criticism may be termed as the literature of knowledge and creative writing as the literature of power. Literature of power deals with life, where as literature of knowledge share information on creative composition. Alexander Pope has rightly said: “Both from Heaven derive their light These born to judge, as well as those to write.” He gives equal value to both the critic and the creative writer. To him both are gifted writers, one to write creatively and the other to judge the creativity. But Dryden does not agree with the views of Pope. To him “the corruption of a poet is the generation of a critic.” He believed that those who cannot be good creative writer they become critics and corrupt creativity of the artists. Lessing believed that, “Not every critic is born a genius, but every genius is born a critic of art. He has within himself the evidence of all rules.” He gives respectful place to critics and criticism. He is of the belief that the critics are born genius to judge the work of art. No critic can ever form accurate judgement unless he possesses the artist’s vision. Criticism and creativity are inextricably mingled with each other. Thus the artist is the critic of life and Critic, that of art. The artist must have the imagination and vision to critically imitate the life/nature; the Critic from beginning to end, relive the same experience.

Girlfriend doesn’t seem like the right word for what you mean to me. Probably that’s what I should be calling you to other people, since I can’t introduce you at parties as my submissive. But to me, saying you’re just my girlfriend would be…it would feel like I was saying I wasn’t pleased with you, or proud of you. And I am. I’ve never had a submissive of my own before, because I’ve never met anybody I felt a connection with until now. On the other hand, I’ve also never had a girlfriend, so I don’t have a basis for comparison.” [...] “The thing is,” Ivan went on, his voice soft and soothing over the counterpoint of the howling wind outside, the insistent thrumming of the rain on the rooftop, “I think this is love. But I’ve never been in love before, either, so I don’t know.

When thro' Earth's caverns I a-while have roul'd My waves, I rise, and here again behold The long-lost stars; and, as I late did glide Near Styx, Proserpina there I espy'd. Fear still with grief might in her face be seen; She still her rape laments; yet, made a queen, Beneath those gloomy shades her sceptre sways, And ev'n th' infernal king her will obeys. This heard, the Goddess like a statue stood, Stupid with grief; and in that musing mood Continu'd long; new cares a-while supprest The reigning of her immortal breast. At last to Jove her daughter's sire she flies, And with her chariot cuts the chrystal skies; She comes in clouds, and with dishevel'd hair, Standing before his throne, prefers her pray'r” (Ovid, Metamorphoses (Translated by Sir Samuel Garth, John Dryden, et al). „ქვესკნელში ვწვეთავ, მივიწყებულ ვარსკვლავთა შევცქერ. მიწისქვეშეთა სტიქსის მორევს როს მივდიოდი, ვიხილე შენი პროზერპინა ჩემი თვალებით. თუმცა იურვის, აქამომდე კრთომა აქვს სახეს, დედოფალია მაინც. დიდი, ბნელი სამეფოს უფლებამორჭმულ ცოლად უზის ქვესკნელის ტირანს. მეხდაცემული იყო დიდხანს, მაგრამ როს ურვამ განდევნა დიდი გონდაბინდვა, ამხედრდა ეტლზე, ეთერს აიჭრა და სახეზე ნისლმობურული იუპიტერის წინ წარმოდგა გაშლილი თმებით“ (პუბლიუს ოვიდიუს ნაზონი, მეტამორფოზები (ლათინურიდან თარგმნეს: ნ. მელაშვილმა, ნ. ტონიამ, ი. გარაყანიძემ), თბ., 1980, 143).

Dryden was a highly prolific literary figure, a professional writer who was at the centre of all the greatest debates of his time: the end of the Commonwealth, the return of the monarch, the political and religious upheavals of the 1680s, and the specifically literary questions of neoclassicism opposed to more modern trends. He was Poet Laureate from 1668, but lost this position in 1688 on the overthrow of James II. Dryden had become Catholic in 1685, and his allegorical poem The Hind and the Panther (1687) discusses the complex issues of religion and politics in an attempt to reconcile bitterly opposed factions. This contains a well-known line which anticipates Wordsworth more than a century later: 'By education most have been misled … / And thus the child imposes on the man'. The poem shows an awareness of change as one grows older, and the impossibility of holding one view for a lifetime: My thoughtless youth was winged with vain desires, My manhood, long misled by wandering fires, Followed false lights… After 1688, Dryden returned to the theatre, which had given him many of his early successes in tragedy, tragi-comedy, and comedy, as well as with adaptations of Shakespeare. ...... Dryden was an innovator, leading the move from heroic couplets to blank verse in drama, and at the centre of the intellectual debates of the Augustan age. He experimented with verse forms throughout his writing life until Fables Ancient and Modern (1700), which brings together critical, translated, and original works, in a fitting conclusion to a varied career.