John Dryden (/ˈdraɪdən/; 19 August [O.S. 9 August] 1631 – 12 May [O.S. 1 May] 1700) was an English poet, literary critic, translator, and playwright who in 1668 was appointed England's first Poet Laureate.[1][2] (wikipedia)
Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.
He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
not judging truth to be in nature better than falsehood, but setting a value upon both according to interest.
There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know.
More liberty begets desire of more; The hunger still increases with the store
How happy the lover, How easy his chain, How pleasing his pain, How sweet to discover He sighs not in vain.
Never was patriot yet, but was a fool.
We by art unteach what Nature taught.
Old age creeps on us ere we think it nigh.
For secrets are edged tools, And must be kept from children and from fools.