John Dryden

It is sufficient to say, according to the proverb, that here is God's plenty.

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

Fate, and the dooming gods, are deaf to tears.

Ye realms, yet unreveal'd to human sight, Ye gods who rule the regions of the night, Ye gliding ghosts, permit me to relate The mystic wonders of your silent state!

The gates of hell are open night and day; Smooth the descent, and easy is the way: But to return, and view the cheerful skies, In this the task and mighty labor lies.

Like you, an alien in a land unknown, I learn to pity woes so like my own.

Endure the hardships of your present state, Live, and reserve yourselves for better fate.

Can heav'nly minds such high resentment show, Or exercise their spite in human woe?

Arms, and the man I sing, who, forced by Fate, And haughty Juno's unrelenting hate, Expell'd and exil'd, left the Trojan shore; Long labours both by sea and land he bore.

Love is lord of all, and is in all the same.

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.

Love conquers all, and we must yield to Love.

A Heroick Poem, truly such, is undoubtedly the greatest Work which the Soul of Man is capable to perform.

Let old Timotheus yield the prize, Or both divide the crown; He rais’d a mortal to the skies; She drew an angel down.

Timotheus, to his breathing flute, And sounding lyre, Could swell the soul to rage, or kindle soft desire.

And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.

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

Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he soothed his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble; Honor but an empty bubble; Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying.

For pity melts the mind to love.

Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen, Fallen from his high estate, And welt'ring in his blood; Deserted, at his utmost need, By those his former bounty fed, On the bare earth exposed he lies,

Sooth'd with the sound, the king grew vain; Fought all his battles o'er again; And thrice he routed all his foes, and thrice he slew the slain.

Drinking is the soldier’s pleasure; Rich the treasure; Sweet the pleasure; Sweet is pleasure after pain.

Bacchus, ever fair and ever young.

Sound the trumpets; beat the drums... Now give the hautboys breath; he comes, he comes.