John Dryden

Every man with him was God or devil.

A man so various, that he seem’d 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 …

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

Not only hating David, but the king.

Self-defence is nature's eldest law

Better one suffer, than a nation grieve.

All empire is no more than power in trust.

The people's prayer, the glad diviner's theme, The young men's vision, and the old men's dream!

And heaven had wanted one immortal song. But wild ambition loves to slide, not stand, And fortune's ice prefers to virtue's land.

In friendship false, implacable in hate, Resolved to ruin, or to rule the state.

And all to leave, what with his toil he won To that unfeathered two-legged thing, a son.

Great wits are sure to madness near allied, And thin partitions do their bounds divide.

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

Whate’er he did, was done with so much ease, In him alone 'twas natural to please.

Nor can his blessed soul look down from heaven, Or break the eternal sabbath of his rest.

They say everything in the world is good for something.

Second thoughts, they say, are best.

Like a led victim, to my death I'll go, And, dying, bless the hand that gave the blow.

There is a pleasure sure In being mad which none but madmen know.

every language is so full of its own proprieties that what is beautiful in one is often barbarous, nay, sometimes nonsense, in another

It is almost impossible to translate verbally and well at the same time

She, though in full-blown flower of glorious beauty, Grows cold even in the summer of her age.

Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long — Even wondered at, because he dropped no sooner. Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years, Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more; Till like a clock …

His hair just grizzled, As in a green old age.