Jealousy is the jaundice of the soul. John Dryden
Jealousy is the jaundice of the soul.
…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
…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
He with a graceful pride, While his rider every hand survey'd, Sprung loose, and flew into an escapade; Not moving forward, yet with every bound Pressing, and seeming still to quit his ground. John Dryden
He with a graceful pride, While his rider every hand survey'd, Sprung loose, and flew into an escapade; Not moving forward, yet with every bound Pressing, and seeming still to quit his ground.
When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell. John Dryden
When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.
Thou spring'st a leak already in thy crown, A flaw is in thy ill-bak'd vessel found; 'Tis hollow, and returns a jarring sound, Yet thy moist clay is pliant to command, Unwrought, and easy to the potter's hand: Now take the mould; now bend thy mind to feel The first sharp motions of the forming wheel. John Dryden
Thou spring'st a leak already in thy crown, A flaw is in thy ill-bak'd vessel found; 'Tis hollow, and returns a jarring sound, Yet thy moist clay is pliant to command, Unwrought, and easy to the potter's hand: Now take the mould; now bend thy mind to feel The first sharp motions of the forming wheel.
Self-defense is Nature's eldest law. John Dryden
Self-defense is Nature's eldest law.
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
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.
Dead men tell no tales. John Dryden
Dead men tell no tales.
For they conquer who believe they can. John Dryden
For they conquer who believe they can.
Dancing is the poetry of the foot. John Dryden
Dancing is the poetry of the foot.
The sooner you treat your son as a man, the sooner he will be one. John Dryden
The sooner you treat your son as a man, the sooner he will be one.
When bounteous autumn rears her head, he joys to pull the ripened pear. John Dryden
When bounteous autumn rears her head, he joys to pull the ripened pear.
Love is not in our choice but in our fate. John Dryden
Love is not in our choice but in our fate.
But love's a malady without a cure. John Dryden
But love's a malady without a cure.
He who trusts secrets to a servant makes him his master John Dryden
He who trusts secrets to a servant makes him his master
Born: August 9, 1631
Died: May 12, 1700
Profession: Poet
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