All Quotes

"If I by chance succeed In what I write, and that’s a chance indeed, Know I am not so stupid, or so hard, Not to feel praise, or fame’s deserved reward."

"You exclaim as loud as those that praise, For scraps and coach-hire, a young noble’s plays."

"Is it for this they study? to grow pale, And miss the pleasures of a glorious meal? For this, in rags accoutred are they seen, And made the May-game of the public spleen?"

"The bard that first adorn’d our native tongue Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song."

"Th’ illiterate writer, empiric-like, applies To minds diseased unsafe chance remedies: The learn’d in schools, where knowledge first began, Studies with care th’ anatomy of man; Sees virtue, vice, and passions in their cause, And fame from science, not from fortune, draws."

"He was too warm on picking work to dwell, But faggoted his notions as they fell; And if they rhymed and rattled, all was well."

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

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

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

"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."

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

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

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

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

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

"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?"

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

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

"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."

"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."

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

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

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

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

"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!"

"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."

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

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

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

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

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

"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."

"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."

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

"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."

"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."

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

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

"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."

"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."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."