John Dryden Life Quotations

When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.

Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own; he who, secure within, can say, tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Pains of love be sweeter far than all other pleasures are.

To die is landing on some distant shore.

Love is a passion Which kindles honor into noble acts.

When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat; Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit; Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay. Tomorrow's falser than the former day.

How blessed is he, who leads a country life, Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife! Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage, Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age: All who deserve his love, he makes his own; And, to be lov'd himself, needs only to be known.

Joy rul'd the day, and Love the night.

How happy the lover, How easy his chain, How pleasing his pain, How sweet to discover He sighs not in vain.

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.

So softly death succeeded life in her, She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.

Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease.

Fool, not to know that love endures no tie, And Jove but laughs at lovers' perjury.

Love taught him shame, and shame with love at strife Soon taught the sweet civilities of life.

Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend; The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.

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.

I trade both with the living and the dead, for the enrichment of our native language.

Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn fruit that mellow'd long,- Even wonder'd at, because he dropp'd no sooner. Fate seem'd to wind him up for fourscore years, Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more; Till like a clock worn out with eating time, The wheels of weary life at last stood still.

When I consider life, 't is all a cheat. Yet fool'd 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 blest With some new joys, cuts off what we possest. Strange cozenage! none would live past years again, Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain; And from the dregs of life think to receive What the first sprightly running could not give.

Pity melts the mind to love.