John 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.

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

Better shun the bait, than struggle in the snare.

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!

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.

Dancing is the poetry of the foot.

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.

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.

Love is love's reward.

Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.

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.

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

Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.

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

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

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

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.

Love is a passion which kindles honor into noble acts.

None are so busy as the fool and knave.

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

To die is landing on some distant shore.

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

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

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.

words are but pictures of our thoughts

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.

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".

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.

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.

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.

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

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

Fools are more hard to conquer than persuade.

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.

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

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

If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

What passion cannot music raise or quell

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

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.

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.

We first make our habits, and then our habits make us.” —JOHN DRYDEN

gloomy, pensive, discontented temper This melancholy flatters, but unmans you; What is it else but penury of soul, A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind? —JOHN DRYDEN AT

We first make our habits, and then our habits make us. —John Dryden, seventeenth-century English poet and dramatist

Beware the fury of a patient man. I’d Googled it to find that it was a John Dryden quote, and I knew what it meant. Those who are patient, plan. And beware the man with a plan.

Beware the fury of a patient man. I’d Googled it to find that it was a John Dryden quote, and I knew what it meant. Those who are patient, plan. And beware the man with a plan.

There is a pleasure sure in being mad which none but madmen know -John Dryden

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.

Immortal honour, endless fame, Attend the Almighty Father’s name: The Saviour Son be glorified, Who for lost man’s redemption died; And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to Thee. Amen. —RABANUS MAURUS (9TH C.); TRANSLATED BY JOHN DRYDEN (1631

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.

But wilde Ambition loves to slide, not stand; And Fortunes Ice prefers to Vertues Land

What cannot Praise effect in Mighty Minds, When Flattery Sooths, and when Ambition Blinds!

Was there no milder way but the Small Pox, The very filth’ness of Pandora’s Box?

When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.

But dying is a pleasure / When living is a pain.

And, dying, bless the hand that gave the blow.

Man, like the vine, supported lives; His strength comes from the embrace he gives.

But, when to Sin our byast Nature leans, The carefull Devil is still at hand with means. - Ama yanlı Tabiatımız günaha meylettiği zaman Gerekli araçlarla çıkagelir uyanık Şeytan.

Two if's scarce make one possibility.

Seek not thyself without thyself to find.

For Life is the means, but Love’s the end. [IV.4.73]

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).

so meer Poets and meer Musicians, are as sottish as meer Drunkards are, who live in a continuall mist without seeing, or judgeing any thing clearly. A man should be learn'd in severall Sciences, and should have a rea∣sonable Philosophicall, and ni some measure a Mathematicall head; to be a compleat and excellent Poet

The midwife laid her hand on his thick skull, With this prophetic blessing—Be thou dull; 60 Drink, swear, and roar, forbear no lewd delight Fit for thy bulk, do anything but write. Thou art of lasting make, like thoughtless men, A strong nativity—but for the pen; Eat opium, mingle arsenic in thy drink, 65 Still thou mayest live, avoiding pen and ink. I see, I see, ’tis counsel given in vain, For treason, botched in rhyme, will be thy bane; Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck, ’Tis fatal to thy fame and to thy neck.

Pacifism: "Like a snake devouring a mouse, the Earth devours a king who is inclined to peace." — Arthasastra of Kautilya Pacifism: "Virtue, stripped of force, reveals its own weakness. ... A state which only defends itself against its powerful neighbors with justice and moderation will be defeated sooner or later." — Abbot Mably, 1757 Peace: "Peace itself is war in masquerade." — John Dryden, 1682 Peace, as primary policy objective: "Whenever peace — conceived as the avoidance of war — has been the primary objective of a power or a group of powers, the international system has been at the mercy of the most ruthless member of the international community. Whenever the international order has acknowledged that certain principles could not be compromised even for the sake of peace, stability based on an equilibrium of forces [has been] at least conceivable." — Henry A. Kissinger, 1964 Peace, bad: "There never was a good war or a bad peace." — Benjamin Franklin, 1773 Peace, bad: "A bad peace is even worse than war." — Tacitus, c. 110 [See The Annals III.44: Miseram pacem vel bello bene mutari.]

It is almost impossible to translate verbally and well at the same time; for the Latin (a most severe and compendious language) often expresses that in one word which either the barbarity or the narrowness of modern tongues cannot supply in more. ...But since every language is so full of its own proprieties that what is beautiful in one is often barbarous, nay, sometimes nonsense, in another, it would be unreasonable to limit a translator to the narrow compass of his author's words; it is enough if he choose out some expression which does not vitiate the sense.

A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all Mankinds Epitome. Stiff in Opinions, always in the wrong; Was every thing by starts, and nothing long: But, in the course of one revolving Moon, Was Chymist, Fidler, States-Man, and Buffoon: Then all for Women, Painting, Rhiming, Drinking; Besides ten thousand freaks that dy'd in thinking. Blest Madman, who coud every hour employ, With something New to wish, or to enjoy! Rayling and praising were his usual Theams; And both (to shew his Judgment) in Extreams: So over Violent, or over Civil, That every man, with him, was God or Devil. In squandring Wealth was his peculiar Art: Nothing went unrewarded, but Desert. Begger'd by Fools, whom still he found too late: He had his Jest, and they had his Estate.

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.

Youth, beauty, graceful action seldom fail, But common interest always will prevail.

...when the youthful pair more closely join, When hands in hands they lock, and thighs in thighs they twine; Just in the raging foam of full desire, When both press on, both murmur, both expire, They grip, they squeeze, their humid tongues they dart, As each would force their way to th'others heart. In vain; they only cruise about the coast. For bodies cannot pierce, nor be in bodies lost, As sure they strive to be, when both engage In that tumultuous momentary rage. So tangled in the nets of love they lie, Till man dissolves in that excess of joy.

If thou art thus uxoriously inclin’d To bear thy bondage with a willing mind, Prepare thy neck.

John Dryden.

The prostrate lover, when he lowest lies, But stoops to conquer, and but kneels to rise.

before his trip to England, he had bought on account Harper’s Classical Library, which included John Dryden’s translation of the Aeneid. In Mardi, he had mentioned “Virgil my minstrel,” and in White-Jacket, the sight of Jack Chase encouraging the poet Lemsford had put him in mind of the Roman patron “Mecaenas listening to Virgil, with a book of the Aeneid in his hand.” But these pro forma nods toward the Roman poet had been conventionally reverent; it was not until sometime in 1850 that Melville had his true encounter with the Aeneid and found himself recapitulating Virgil’s story of a haunted mariner voyaging out to avenge a grievous loss.* The men of Moby-Dick are Virgilian wanderers. They long for home even as fate calls them away from “safety, comfort, hearthstone, supper, warm blankets, friends, all that’s kind to our mortalities.” Early in the book, one hears echoes of Virgil’s account of the Trojan mariners preparing, after brief respite, to set sail again with ships newly caulked as Queen Dido watches them from a hilltop in Carthage.

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, “A Song for St. Cecelia’s Day

But grieve not, while thou stayest, My last disastrous times: Think we have had a clear and glorious day And Heaven did kindly to delay the storm, Just till our close of evening.

The point of this passage—part of what W. B. Yeats called “the finest description of sexual intercourse ever written”—is not to urge a more decorous, tepid form of lovemaking. It is to take note of the element of unsated appetite that haunts even the fulfillment of desire. The insatiability of sexual appetite is, in Lucretius’ view, one of Venus’ cunning strategies; it helps to account for the fact that, after brief interludes, the same acts of love are performed again and again. And he understood too that these repeated acts are deeply pleasurable. But he remained troubled by the ruse, by the emotional suffering that comes in its wake, by the arousal of aggressive impulses, and, above all, by the sense that even the moment of ecstasy leaves something to be desired. In 1685, the great poet John Dryden brilliantly captured Lucretius’ remarkable vision:

Together they read plays and poems by William Shakespeare and Thomas Hobbes's Leviathan, and Bianca translated some of Ovid's poetry for her as well as parts of Homer's great works. They relished the poems of Andrew Marvell, John Dryden and John Milton. They read excerpts from the King James Bible, as well as passages from books of history, gardening, medicine and more. The closet wasn't much, but it was Rosamund's, especially now it bore no resemblance to its former owner. It was her cave in which, like Ali Baba, she kept her trove of treasured ideas and growing knowledge, but could open and close it at will with the key hanging around her neck. It was in this room that Rosamund finally started to feel a sense of belonging.

Duke of Buckingham, a sometime favorite of King Charles II and famously satirized by poet laureate John Dryden: Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; Was everything by starts, and nothing long: But in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.

So love with phantoms cheats our longing eyes, Which hourly seeing never satisfies; Our hands pull nothing from the parts they strain, But wander o’er the lovely limbs in vain: Nor when the youthful pair more closely join, When hands in hands they lock, and thighs in thighs they twine, Just in the raging foam of full desire, When both press on, both murmur, both expire, They gripe, they squeeze, their humid tongues they dart, As each would force their way to t’other’s heart – In vain; they only cruise about the coast, For bodies cannot pierce, nor be in bodies lost.

All human things are subject to decay

Oh, let me die but with you! Is that a hard request? Next living with you, 'Tis all that Heaven can give.

Give, you gods, Give to your boy, your Caesar, This rattle of a globe to play withal, This gewgaw world, and put him cheaply off: I'll not be pleased with less than Cleopatra.

What tell'st thou me of Egpyt?

Happy the Man Horace (65BCE- 8BCE); trans. John Dryden   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. Be fair or foul, or rain or shine The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself, upon the past has power, But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

For many of my subjects from that first study—all writers associated with the Iowa Writers’ Workshop—mental illness and creativity went hand in hand. This link is not surprising. The archetype of the mad genius dates back to at least classical times, when Aristotle noted, “Those who have been eminent in philosophy, politics, poetry, and the arts have all had tendencies toward melancholia.” This pattern is a recurring theme in Shakespeare’s plays, such as when Theseus, in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, observes, “The lunatic, the lover, and the poet / Are of imagination all compact.” John Dryden made a similar point in a heroic couplet: “Great wits are sure to madness near allied, / And thin partitions do their bounds divide.

Where'e'er I go, my soul shall stay with thee: 'Tis but my shadow that I take away: - John Morley gave this quote to Sophia Paterson in the book "The Winter Sea

But O! what art can teach, What human voice can reach, The sacred organ's praise?

In the Canadiens’ dressing room, on a wall above the players’ lockers, is a line from John McCrae’s poem, “In Flanders Fields.” It reads: To you from failing hands we throw the torch, be yours to hold it high.

Tremble ye Nations who secure before,   115 Laught at those Arms that’ gainst our selves we bore;

Education is what remains after one has forgotten what one has learned in school. John Dryden

So easie still it proves in Factious Times, With publick Zeal to cancel private Crimes: How safe is Treason, and how sacred ill, Where none can sin against the Peoples Will: Where Crouds can wink; and no offence be known, Since in anothers guilt they find their own.

NOW  with a general Peace the World was blest, While Ours, a World divided from the rest,

John Dryden called jealousy “the jaundice of the soul.” If your jealousy gets in your way, and creates any amount of emotional immobility, then you can set as a goal the elimination of this wasteful thinking. Jealousy is really a demand that someone love you in a certain way, and you saying “It isn’t fair” when they don’t. It comes from a lack of self-confidence, simply because it is an other-directed activity. It allows their behavior to be the cause of your emotional discomfort. People who really like themselves don’t choose jealousy or allow themselves to be distraught when someone else doesn’t play fair. You can never predict how someone you love will react to another human being, but if they choose to be affectionate or loving you can only experience the immobility of jealousy if you see their decisions as having anything to do with you. That is your choice. If a partner loves another, he isn’t being “unfair,” he is simply being.

But, when to Sin our byast Nature leans, The carefull Devil is still at hand with means; And providently Pimps for ill desires: The Good old Cause reviv'd, a Plot requires. Plots, true or false, are necessary things, To raise up Common-wealths, and ruin Kings.

Music is the exultation of Poetry. Both of them may excel apart but... are most excellent when they are joined.

John Dryden brilliantly captured Lucretius’ remarkable vision: . . . when the youthful pair more closely join, When hands in hands they lock, and thighs in thighs they twine; Just in the raging foam of full desire, When both press on, both murmur, both expire, They grip, they squeeze, their humid tongues they dart, As each would force their way to th’others heart. In vain; they only cruise about the coast. For bodies cannot pierce, nor be in bodies lost, As sure they strive to be, when both engage In that tumultuous momentary rage. So tangled in the nets of love they lie, Till man dissolves in that excess of joy.

In John Dryden’s translation of the Aeneid, the Sybil speaks of a “field of blood” and a “purple flood”. That there can be various translations should have made it evident to the political classes that Powell was not being literalist, though I have now stressed that enough. Instead, to read the entire segment it is clear the Sybil is warning of great hardship for Aeneas, the immigrant, but tells him in that in the end he shall get what he wishes: a  town of his own in the land to which he “migrated”. Powell will have been aware of this. That rather than integration, what Britain would end up with is foreign areas in Britain.

Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.

But slaves we are, and labour in another man's plantation; we dress the vineyard, but the wine is the owner's. - JOHN DRYDEN, extract from the 'Dedication' to his translation of the Aeneid

Mr Hobbes, in the preface to his own bald translation of the "Ilias," (studying poetry as he did mathematics, when it was too late,) Mr Hobbes, I say, begins the praise of Homer where he should have ended it. He tells us, that the first beauty of an epic poem consists in diction; that is, in the choice of words, and harmony of numbers. Now the words are the colouring of the work, which, in the order of nature, is last to be considered; the design, the disposition, the manners, and the thoughts, are all before it: where any of those are wanting or imperfect, so much wants or is imperfect in the imitation of human life, which is in the very definition of a poem. Words, indeed, like glaring colours, are the first beauties that arise, and strike the sight; but, if the draught be false or lame, the figures ill disposed, the manners obscure or inconsistent, or the thoughts unnatural, then the finest colours are but daubing, and the piece is a beautiful monster at the best. Neither Virgil nor Homer were deficient in any of the former beauties; but in this last, which is expression, the Roman poet is at least equal to the Grecian, as I have said elsewhere: supplying the poverty of his language by his musical ear, and by his diligence.

I am of the temper of most kings, who love to be in debt, are all for present money, no matter how they pay it afterwards: besides, the nature of a preface is rambling, never wholly out of the way, nor in it. This I have learned from the practice of honest Montaigne, and return at my pleasure to Ovid and Chaucer, of whom I have little more to say.

The prince, unable to conceal his pain, Gazed on the fair Who caused his care, And sigh’d and look’d, sigh'd and look’d, Sigh’d and look’d, and sigh’d again: At length with love and wine at once opprest The vanquish'd victor sunk upon her breast.

Through all the realms of Non-sense, absolute

But slaves we are, and labour in another man’s plantation; we dress the vineyard, but the wine is the owner’s. JOHN DRYDEN, extract from the ‘Dedication’ to his translation of the Aeneid

Throughout history, it has been the inaction of those who could have acted; the indifference of those who should have known better; the silence of the voice of justice when it mattered most; that has made it possible for evil to triumph.”—Haile Selassie “Beware the fury of a patient man.”—John Dryden

For mankind is ever the same and nothing is lost out of nature, though everything is altered.” —JOHN DRYDEN, “On the Characters in the Canterbury Tales,” In

And those prayers which heaven in fury grants, they are the most terrible.