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)
Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I.
Ever a glutton, at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.
Men are but children of a larger growth, Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain.
None, none descends into himself, to find The secret imperfections of his mind: But every one is eagle-ey'd to see Another's faults, and his deformity.
Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend: Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.
A lazy frost, a numbness of the mind.
Few know the use of life before 'tis past.
No king nor nation one moment can retard the appointed hour.
Presence of mind and courage in distress, Are more than arrives to procure success?
If passion rules, how weak does reason prove!