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)
He made all countries where he came his own.
An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
No government has ever been, or can ever be, wherein time-servers and blockheads will not be uppermost.
Be slow to resolve, but quick in performance.
Roused by the lash of his own stubborn tail our lion now will foreign foes assail.
Ah, how sweet it is to love! Ah, how gay is young Desire! And what pleasing pains we prove When we first approach Love's fire!
Take not away the life you cannot give: For all things have an equal right to live.
Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the' appointed place we tend; The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
Trust reposed in noble natures obliges them the more.
For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.