John Dryden

Let Fortune empty her whole quiver on me, I have a soul that, like an ample shield, Can take in all, and verge enough for more; Fate was not mine, nor am I Fate's: Souls know no conquerors.

For you may palm upon us new for old:All, as they say, that glitters, is not gold.

Welcome, thou kind deceiver!Thou best of thieves: who, with an easy key,Dost open life, and, unperceived by us,Even steal us from ourselves.

Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls, must dive below.

I am sore wounded but not slainI will lay me down and bleed a whileAnd then rise up to fight again

But far more numerous was the herd of such,Who think too little, and who talk too much.

Those who write ill, and they who ne'er durst write,Turn critics out of mere revenge and spite.

Farewell, ungrateful traitor, Farewell, my perjured swain;Let never injured creature Believe a man again.The pleasure of possessingSurpasses all expressing,But 'tis too short a blessing, And love too long a pain.'Tis easy to deceive us In pity of your pain;But when we love you leave us To rail at you in vain.Before we have descried itThere is no bliss beside it,But she that once has tried it Will never love again.The passion we pretended Was only to obtain,But when the charm is ended The charmer you disdain.Your love by ours we measureTill we have lost our treasure,But dying is a pleasure When living is a pain.

Great wits are to madness near alliedAnd thin partitions do their bounds divide.

Beware the fury of a patient man.

Must I at length the Sword of Justice draw?Oh curst Effects of necessary Law!How ill my Fear they by my Mercy scan,Beware the Fury of a Patient Man.

Better to hunt in fields, for health unbought,Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught.The wise, for cure, on exercise depend;God never made his work for man to mend.

Whence but from heaven, could men unskilled in arts,In several ages born, in several parts,Weave such agreeing truths? Or how, or why, Should all conspire to cheat us with a lie?

When I consider Life, 'tis all a cheat;Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit;Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay:To-morrow's falser than the former day;Lies worse; and while it says, we shall be blestWith some new joys, cuts off what we possesst.