John Dryden

Was there no milder way but the Small Pox, The very filth’ness of Pandora’s Box?

Youth, beauty, graceful action seldom fail,
But common interest always will prevail.

What passion cannot music raise or quell

Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense,
But good men starve for want of impudence.

All things are subject to decay and when fate summons, monarchs must obey.

But O! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach,
The sacred organ's praise?

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.

Oh, let me die but with you!
Is that a hard request?

Next living with you,
'Tis all that Heaven can give.

I strongly wish for what I faintly hope; like the daydreams of melancholy men, I think and think in things impossible, yet love to wander in that golden maze.

Thus, in a Pageant Show, a Plot is made;
And Peace it self is War in Masquerade.

Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.

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.

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

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.

So easie still it proves in Factious Times,
With publick Zeal to cancel private Crimes:
How safe is Treason, and how sacred ill,
Where none can sin against the Peoples Will:
Where Crouds can wink; and no offence be known,
Since in anothers guilt they find their own.