A fiery soul, which, working out its way, Fretted the pygmy-body to decay, And o'er-inform'd the tenement of clay. A daring pilot in extremity; Pleas'd with the danger, when the waves went high He sought the storms.
John Dryden
A man so various, that he seem'd to be Not one, but all mankind's epitome; Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong, Was everything by starts, and nothing long; But in the course of one revolving moon Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.
John Dryden
And all to leave what with his toil he won To that unfeather'd two-legged thing, a son.
John Dryden
And heaven had wanted one immortal song.
John Dryden
Beware the fury of a patient man.
John Dryden
But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand, And Fortune’s ice prefers to Virtue’s land.
John Dryden
For every inch that is not fool is rogue.
John Dryden
Great wits are sure to madness near allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide.
John Dryden
Resolv’d to ruin or to rule the state.
John Dryden
So over violent, or over civil, That every man with him was God or Devil.
John Dryden
The people's prayer, the glad diviner's theme, The young men's vision, and the old men's dream!
John Dryden
Whate'er he did was done with so much ease, In him alone 't was natural to please.
John Dryden
Who think too little, and who talk too much.
John Dryden