"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."

"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."

"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."

"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?"

"I learned versification chiefly from Dryden's works, who has improved it much beyond any of our former poets, and would probably have brought it to its perfection, had not he been unhappily obliged to write so often in haste."

"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."

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

"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."

"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."

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

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

"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?"

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

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

"Such is the poet’s lot: what happier fate Does on the works of grave historians wait! More time they spend, in-greater toils engage: Their volumes swell beyond the thousandth page."

"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."

"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."

"That good man, who drank the pois’nous draught With mind serene, and could not wish to see His vile accuser drink as deep as he."

"All authors to their own defects are blind; Hadst thou but, Janus-like, a face behind, To see the people, what splay mouths they make, To mark their fingers pointed at thy back."

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

"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 unhappy man who once has trail’d a pen Lives not to please himself, but other men; Is always drudging with his life and blood, Yet only eats and drinks what you think good."

"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."

"Anger would indite Such woful stuff as I or Shadwell write."

"Some beams of wit on other souls may fall, Strike through, and make a lucid interval; But Shadwell’s genuine night admits no ray, His rising fogs prevail upon the day."

"Shadwell till death true dulness would maintain; And, in his father’s right and realm’s defence, Ne’er would have peace with wit, nor truce with sense."

"Shadwell alone of all my sons is he Who stands confirm’d in full stupidity."

"The rest to some faint meaning make pretence, But Shadwell never deviates into sense."

"But Shakspeare’s magic could not copied be; Within that circle none durst walk but he."

"Orestes’ bulky rage, Unsatisfied with margins closely writ, Foams o’er the covers, and not finish’d yet."

"Lucan, content with praise, may lie at ease In costly grots and marble palaces; But to poor Bassus what avails a name, To starve on compliments and empty fame?"

"Next Petrarch follow’d, and in him we see What rhyme, improved in all its height, can be; At best a pleasing sound, and sweet barbarity."

"Saint Andre’s feet ne’er kept more equal time, Not ev’n the feet of thy own Psyche’s rhyme; Though they in numbers as in sense excel, So just, so like tautology, they fell."

"Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight, Did no Volpone, nor no Arbaces write; But hopp’d about, and short excursions made From bough to bough, as if they were afraid."

"The vain endurances of life, And they who most perform’d, and promised less, Ev’n Short and Hobbes, forsook th’ unequal strife."

"Homer, whose name shall live in epic song, While music numbers, or while verse has feet."

"Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England did adorn: The first in majesty of thought surpass’d, The next in gracefulness; in both the last. The force of nature could no further go: To make a third she join’d the other two."

"Horace, with sly insinuating grace, Laugh’d at his friend, and look’d him in the face; Would raise a blush where secret vice he found, And tickle while he gently probed the wound; With seeming innocence the crowd beguiled, But made the desperate passes when he smiled."

"Ganfride, who couldst so well in rhyme complain The death of Richard, with an arrow slain."

"In easy dialogues is Fletcher’s praise: He moved the mind, but had not pow’r to raise."

"Nor let false friends seduce thy mind to fame By arrogating Jonson’s hostile name; Let father Flecknoe fire thy mind with praise, And uncle Ogleby thy envy raise."

"When did his muse from Fletcher scenes purloin, As thou whose Eth’ ridge dost transfuse to thine? But so transfused as oil and waters flow: His always floats above, thine sinks below."

"Whoe’er thou art, whose forward ears are bent On state affairs, to guide the government; Hear first what Socrates of old has said To the loved youth whom he at Athens bred."

"Would I had been disposer of thy stars, Thou shouldst have had thy wish, and died in wars."