English - Poet | August 19, 1631 - May 12, 1700
God never made His work for man to mend.
John Dryden
WorkGodManNeverMadeHis
Pains of love be sweeter far than all other pleasures are.
LovePainsSweeterPleasuresFar
To die is landing on some distant shore.
DieShoreLandingSomeDistant
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.
FoolTiredMeEagleWingsNow
Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.
BeautyIceWaySeeSureSmooth
Love is love's reward.
LoveLove IsReward
Words are but pictures of our thoughts.
CommunicationWordsThoughtsPictures
The intoxication of anger, like that of the grape, shows us to others, but hides us from ourselves.
AngerOthersUsLikeOurselves
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.
SonMoneySoulYouGoSay
But love's a malady without a cure.
LoveWithoutCureMalady
There is a pleasure in being mad which none but madmen know.
MadKnowPleasureBeingNoneWhich
Let grace and goodness be the principal loadstone of thy affections. For love which hath ends, will have an end; whereas that which is founded on true virtue, will always continue.
LoveGraceEndGoodnessTrueVirtue
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