"O thou sophist, Man! Reason by reason proved unreasonable Continues reasoning still! Confronted close, What is this reason? Like the peacock's tail, Just useful for a flourish, nothing more; And when 'tis down, the world goes on the same."

"Love and naughtiness are always in their teens."

"Doth Nature draw me, 'tis because, Unto my seeming, there doth lurk A lawlessness about her laws, More mood than purpose in her work."

"Is life worth living? Yes, so long As there is wrong to right, Wail of the weak against the strong, Or tyranny to fight;"

"[H]e who saves an ancient tree does better even than he who plants a new one."

"The most generous of critics, if he is to be discriminating and just, cannot, let me say again, allow that any verse which is profoundly obscure or utterly unmusical, no matter how intellectual in substance, deserves the appellation of poetry. But on a very thin thread of meaning poetry, or a very fair imitation of it, may be hung by the aid of musical sound."

"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."

"Dryden taught to join The varying verse, the full resounding line, The long majestic march, and energy divine."

"Even copious Dryden wanted, or forgot, The last and greatest art, the art to blot."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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."

"Dryden has neither a tender heart nor a lofty sense of moral dignity: where his language is poetically impassioned it is mostly upon unpleasing subjects; such as the follies, vice, and crimes of classes of men or of individuals."

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

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

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

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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."