John Dryden

Of seeming arms to make a short essay,
Then hasten to be drunk — the business of the day.

For truth has such a face and such a mien
As to be loved needs only to be seen.

He was exhaled; his great Creator drew
His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.

Genius must be born, and never can be taught.

What flocks of critics hover here to-day,
As vultures wait on armies for their prey,
All gaping for the carcase of a play!
With croaking notes they bode some dire event,
And follow dying poets by the scent.

Thus in a pageant-show a plot is made;
And peace itself is war in masquerade.

An horrid stillness first invades the ear,
And in that silence we the tempest fear.

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

War seldom enters but where wealth allures.

Men met each other with erected look,
The steps were higher that they took;
Friends to congratulate their friends made haste,
And long inveterate foes saluted as they passed.

A brave man scorns to quarrel once a day;
Like Hectors in at every petty fray.

Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again.

When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind!

Auspicious Prince! at whose nativity
Some royal planet rul'd the southern sky;
Thy longing country's darling and desire;
Their cloudy pillar, and their guardian fire:
Their second Moses, whose extended wand
Divides the seas, and shows the promis'd land:
Whose dawning day, in very distant age,
Has exercis'd the sacred prophet's rage:
The people's pray'r, the glad diviner's theme,
The young men's vision, and the old men's dream!

The sword within the scabbard keep,
And let mankind agree.

[T]he Famous Rules which the French call, Des Trois Unitez, or, The Three Unities, which ought to be observ'd in every Regular Play; namely, of Time, Place, and Action.

And doomed to death, though fated not to die.

How easie is it to call Rogue and Villain, and that wittily! But how hard to make a Man appear a Fool, a Blockhead, or a Knave, without using any of those opprobrious terms! To spare the grossness of the Names, and to do the thing yet more severely, is to draw a full Face, and to make the Nose and Cheeks stand out, and yet not to employ any depth of Shadowing. This is the Mystery of that Noble Trade, which yet no Master can teach to his Apprentice: He may give the Rules, but the Scholar is never the nearer in his practice. Neither is it true, that this fineness of Raillery is offensive. A witty Man is tickl'd while he is hurt in this manner, and a Fool feels it not. The occasion of an Offence may possibly be given, but he cannot take it. If it be granted that in effect this way does more Mischief; that a Man is secretly wounded, and though he be not sensible himself, yet the malicious World will find it for him: yet there is still a vast difference betwixt the slovenly Butchering of a Man, and the fineness of a stroke that separates the Head from the Body, and leaves it standing in its place.

Large was his wealth, but larger was his heart.

Of these the false Achitophel was first,
A name to all succeeding ages cursed.
For close designs and crooked counsels fit,
Sagacious, bold, and turbulent of wit,
Restless, unfixed in principles and place,
In power unpleased, impatient of disgrace;
A fiery soul, which working out its way,
Fretted the pygmy-body to decay:
And o'er-informed the tenement of clay.
A daring pilot in extremity;
Pleased with the danger, when the waves went high
He sought the storms; but for a calm unfit,
Would steer too nigh the sands to boast his wit.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.