"Dryden's performances were always hasty, either excited by some external occasion, or extorted by domestic necessity; he composed without consideration, and published without correction. What his mind could supply at call, or gather in one excursion, was all that he sought, and all that he gave."

"The rectitude of Dryden's mind was sufficiently shown by the dismission of his poetical prejudices, and the rejection of unnatural thoughts and rugged numbers. But Dryden never desired to apply all the judgment that he had. He wrote, and professed to write, merely for the people; and when he pleased others, he contented himself. He spent no time in struggles to rouse latent powers; he never attempted to make that better which was already good, nor often to mend what he must have known to be faulty. He wrote, as he tells us, with very little consideration; when occasion or necessity called upon him, he poured out what the present moment happened to supply, and, when once it had passed the press, ejected it from his mind; for, when he had no pecuniary interest, he had no further solicitude."

"Of Dryden's works it was said by Pope, that he "could select from them better specimens of every mode of poetry than any other English writer could supply." Perhaps no nation ever produced a writer that enriched his language with such variety of models. To him we owe the improvement, perhaps the completion, of our metre, the refinement of our language, and much of the correctness of our sentiments. By him we are taught "sapere et fari," to think naturally and express forcibly. [...] it may be, perhaps, maintained that he was the first who joined argument with poetry. He showed us the true bounds of a translator's liberty. What was said of Rome, adorned by Augustus, may be applied by an easy metaphor to English poetry, embellished by Dryden, "lateritiam invenit, marmoream reliquit." He found it brick, and he left it marble."

"None of his prefaces were ever thought tedious. They have not the formality of a settled style, in which the first half of the sentence betrays the other. The clauses are never balanced, nor the periods modelled; every word seems to drop by chance, though it falls into its proper place. Nothing is cold or languid; the whole is airy, animated, and vigorous: what is little is gay; what is great is splendid. [...] Though all is easy, nothing is feeble; though all seems careless, there is nothing harsh; and though since his earlier works more than a century has passed they have nothing yet uncouth or obsolete."

"Dryden may be properly considered as the father of English criticism, as the writer who first taught us to determine upon principles the merit of composition."

"What is there in Dryden? Much, but above all this: he is the most masculine of our poets; his style and his rhythms lay the strongest stress of all our literature on the naked thew and sinew of the English language."

"Here let me bend, great Dryden, at thy shrine, Thou dearest name to all the tuneful nine. What if some dull lines in cold order creep, And with his theme the poet seems to sleep? Still, when his subject rises proud to view, With equal strength the poet rises too: With strong invention, noblest vigour fraught, Thought still springs up and rises out of thought; Numbers ennobling numbers in their course, In varied sweetness flow, in varied force; The powers of genius and of judgment join, And the whole Art of Poetry is thine."

"He had made the language his study; and though he wrote hastily, and often incorrectly, and his style is not free from faults, yet there is a richness in his diction, a copiousness, ease, and variety in his expression, which has not been surpassed by any who have come after him."

"He with his sword unsheathed, on pain of life, Commands both combatants to cease their strife."

"Would you the advantage of the fight delay If, striking first, you were to win the day?"

"The Grecians rally, and their powers unite; With fury charge us, and renew the fight."

"Thus fights Ulysses, thus his fame extends; A formidable man, but to his friends."

"He to the town return’d, Attended by the chiefs who fought the field, Now friendly mix’d, and in one troop compell’d."

"Their standard, planted on the battlement, Despair and death among the soldiers sent."

"Amidst whole heaps of spices lights a ball, And now their odours arm’d against them fly: Some preciously by shatter’d porcelain fall, And some by aromatic splinters die."

"A cloud of smoke envelops either host, And all at once the combatants are lost: Darkling they join adverse, and shock unseen, Coursers with coursers justing, mén with men."

"Two battles your auspicious cause has won; Thy sword can perfect what it has begun."

"They follow their undaunted king; Crowd through their gates; and, in the fields of light, The shocking squadrons meet in mortal fight."

"Why asks he what avails him not in fight, And would but cumber and retard his flight, In which his only excellence is placed? You give him death that interrupt his haste."

"Here Pallas urges on, and Lausus there; Their congress in the field great Jove withstands: Both doom’d to fall, but fall by greater hands."

"I fought and fell like one, but death deceived me: I wanted weight of feeble Moors upon me, To crush my soul out."

"Our swords so wholly did the fates employ, That they, at length, grew weary to destroy; Refused the work we brought, and out of breath, Made sorrow and despair attend for death."

"But the base miser starves amidst his store, Broods o’er his gold, and, griping still at more, Sits sadly pining, and believes he’s poor."

"From hence the greatest part of ills descend, When lust of getting more will have no end."

"As thy strutting bags with money rise, The love of gain is of an equal size."

"Like a miser ’midst his store, Who grasps and grasps till he can hold no more."

"For should you to extortion be inclined, Your cruel guilt will little booty find."

"The base wretch who hoards up all he can Is praised and call’d a careful thrifty man."

"For he who covets gain in such excess Does by dumb signs himself as much express As if in words at length he show’d his mind."

"Go, miser! go: for lucre sell thy soul; Truck wares for wares, and trudge from pole to pole, That men may say, when thou art dead and gone, See what a vast estate he left his son!"

"Nor love his peace of mind destroys, Nor wicked avarice of wealth."

"Young men to imitate all ills are prone, But are compell'd to avarice alone; For then in virtue's shape they follow vice."

"But more have been by avarice opprest, And heaps of money crowded in the chest."

"Her soul abhorring avarice, Bounteous; but almost bounteous to a vice."

"Up, up, says Avarice! thou snor’st again, Stretchest thy limbs, and yawn’st, but all in vain: The tyrant Lucre no denial takes; At his command th’ unwilling sluggard wakes."

"Autumn succeeds, a sober, tepid age, Nor froze with fear, nor boiling into rage; Last, Winter creeps along with tardy pace, Sour is his front, and furrow’d is his face."

"Autumnal heat declines, Ere heat is quite decay’d, or cold begun."

"When bounteous Autumn rears his head, He joys to pull the ripen’d pear."

"Every scribbling man Grows a fop as fast as e’er he can, Prunes up, and asks his oracle the glass If pink or purple best become his face?"

"Thy name, to Phoebus and the muses known, Shall in the front of ev’ry page be shown."

"Yet still thy fools shall stand in thy defence, And justify their author’s want of sense."

"'Tis not indeed my talent to engage In lofty trifles, or to swell my page With wind and noise."

"Gentle or sharp, according to thy choice, To laugh at follies, or to lash at vice."

"I must disclaim whate’er he can express; His grovelling sense will show my passion less."

"Whatever truths Redeem’d from error, or from ignorance, Thin in their authors, like rich veins of ore, Your works unite, and still discover more."

"His knowledge in the noblest useful arts Was such dead authors could not give, But habitudes with those who live."

"No more accuse thy pen, but charge the crime On native sloth, and negligence of time."

"The hand and head were never lost of those Who dealt in dogg’rel, or who punn’d in prose."