Tag: John Dryden

A satirical poet is the check of the laymen on bad priests.

John Dryden

(In today’s parlance I’ll throw the Babylon Bee and my humble self into this category;

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My next desire is, void of care and strife,

To lead a soft, secure, inglorious life:

A country cottage near a crystal flood,

A winding valley, and a lofty wood.

John Dryden

Too black for heav’n, and yet too white for hell.

John Dryden

Railing and praising were his usual themes;

And both, to show his judgment, in extremes;

So over violent, or over civil,

That every man with him was God or devil.

John Dryden

A man so various, that he seemed 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 chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.

John Dryden

But far more numerous was the herd of such,

Who think too little, and who talk too much.

John Dryden

Since ev’ry 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 th’ appointed place we tend;

The world’s an inn, and death the journey’s end.

John Dryden

When I consider life, ‘t is all a cheat.

Yet fool’d with hope, men favour the deceit;

Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay.

To-morrow ‘s falser than the former day;

Lies worse, and while it says we shall be blest

With some new joys, cuts off what we possest.

Strange cozenage! none would live past years again,

Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;

And from the dregs of life think to receive

What the first sprightly running could not give.

John Dryden

Death in itself is nothing; but we fear

To be we know not what, we know not where.

John Dryden