Satire among the Romans, but not among the Greeks, was a bitter invective poem.
JOHN DRYDENShakespeare was the Homer, or father of our dramatic poets;Jonson was theVirgil, the pattern of elaborate writing; I admire him, but I love Shakespeare.
More John Dryden Quotes
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Go miser go, for money sell your soul. Trade wares for wares and trudge from pole to pole, So others may say when you are dead and gone. See what a vast estate he left his son.
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Reason is a crutch for age, but youth is strong enough to walk alone.
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O freedom, first delight of human kind!
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It is a madness to make fortune the mistress of events, because in herself she is nothing, can rule nothing, but is ruled by prudence.
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But when to sin our biased nature leans, The careful Devil is still at hand with means; And providently pimps for ill desires.
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Fattened in vice, so callous and so gross, he sins and sees not, senseless of his loss.
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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.
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We first make our habits, and then our habits make us.
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They first condemn that first advised the ill.
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Errors like straws upon the surface flow, Who would search for pearls to be grateful for often must dive below.
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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?
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Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend: Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.
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Him of the western dome, whose weighty sense Flows in fit words and heavenly eloquence.
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Virgil and Horace were the severest writers of the severest age.
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Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the’ appointed place we tend; The world’s an inn, and death the journey’s end.
JOHN DRYDEN






