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Fool that I was, upon my eagle’s wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.

John Dryden

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.
JOHN DRYDEN

Fair Fate Myself Possession Rain Shine Time
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
JOHN DRYDEN

Creation Dew Greatness Himself Morning Spirit
An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
JOHN DRYDEN

Fear Horrible Ourselves Silence Temptation
All empire is no more than power in trust.
JOHN DRYDEN

Empire Power Trust
War is the trade of kings.
JOHN DRYDEN

King One Liner Trade War
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.
JOHN DRYDEN

Better Health Himself Man Work
Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.
JOHN DRYDEN

Hold Last Sweet
They live too long who happiness outlive.
JOHN DRYDEN

Happiness Live
Lucky men are favorites of Heaven.
JOHN DRYDEN

Favorite Heaven Man
Merit challenges envy.
JOHN DRYDEN

Advantage Jealous One Liner
He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
JOHN DRYDEN

Himself Scene
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.
JOHN DRYDEN

Age Distant Force Herself Nature Poet
The trumpet’s loud clangor Excites us to arms.
JOHN DRYDEN

Excitement Loud
If the faults of men in orders are only to be judged among themselves, they are all in some sort parties; for, since they say the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we be sure that they will be impartial judges?
JOHN DRYDEN

Honor Judgement Man Member Mistake Order
So softly death succeeded life in her, She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.
JOHN DRYDEN

Death Dreams Heaven Herself Life Success
Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she’s at rest, and so am I.
JOHN DRYDEN

Lying Myself Wife

Fool that I was, upon my eagle’s wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.

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Fool that I was, upon my eagle’s wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.

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