John Dryden

It is madness to make fortune the mistress of events, because by herself she is nothing and is ruled by prudence.

Time, place, and action may with pains be wrought, but genius must be born; and never can be taught.

But far more numerous was the herd of such, Who think too little, and who talk too much.

Forgiveness to the injured does belong; but they ne'er pardon who have done wrong.

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

We must beat the iron while it is hot, but we may polish it at leisure.

Mere poets are sottish as mere drunkards are, who live in a continual mist, without seeing or judging anything clearly. A man should be learned in several sciences, and should have a reasonable, philosophical and in some measure a mathematical head, to be a complete and excellent poet.

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

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.

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.

By education most have been misled; So they believe, because they were bred. The priest continues where the nurse began, And thus the child imposes on the man.

But love's a malady without a cure.

Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.

Dancing is the poetry of the foot.

Learn to write well, or not to write at all.

He was the man who of all modern, and perhaps ancient poets, had the largest and most comprehensive soul. . . . He was naturally learn'd; he needed not the spectacles of books to read Nature; he looked inwards, and found her there. . . . He is many times flat, insipid; his comic wit degenerating in to clenches, his serious swelling into bombast. But he is always great, when some occasion is presented to him.

Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.

Plots, true or false, are necessary things, To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings.

Such subtle Covenants shall be made,Till Peace it self is War in Masquerade.

A thing well said will be wit in all languages.

The love of liberty with life is given, And life itself the inferior gift of Heaven.