The Works of John Dryden: Life

Framsida
Paterson, 1882
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Sida 267 - What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw; The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread : Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said: But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Sida 145 - With charm of earliest birds ; pleasant the sun, When first on this delightful land he spreads His orient beams, on herb, tree, fruit, and flower, Glistering with dew : fragrant the fertile earth After soft showers; and sweet the coming on Of grateful evening mild; then silent night, With this her solemn bird, and this fair moon, And these the gems of heaven, her starry train...
Sida 226 - In fireworks give him leave to vent his spite, Those are the only serpents he can write ; The height of his ambition is, we know, But to be master of a puppet-show, On that one stage his works may yet appear, And a month's harvest keeps him all the year.
Sida 396 - Thy reliques, Rowe, to this fair urn we trust, And sacred, place by Dryden's awful dust; Beneath a rude and nameless stone he lies, , To which thy tomb shall guide inquiring eyes. . '• ' Peace to thy gentle shade, and endless rest! Blest in thy genius, in thy love too blest ! One grateful woman to thy fame supplies What a whole thankless land to his denies.
Sida 226 - Doeg, though without knowing how or why, Made still a blundering kind of melody; Spurred boldly on, and dashed through thick and thin Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in: Free from all meaning, whether good or bad, And, in one word, heroically mad, He was too warm on picking-work to dwell, But faggoted his notions as they fell, And, if they rhymed and rattled, all was well.
Sida 108 - ... tis nature wrought up to an higher pitch. The plot, the characters, the wit, the passions, the descriptions, are all exalted above the level of common converse, as high as the imagination of the poet can carry them, with proportion to verisimility.
Sida 180 - I desire to be no longer the Sisyphus of the stage ; to ; roll up a stone with endless labour, (which, to follow the proverb, gathers no moss) and which is perpetually falling down again. I never thought myself very fit for an employment, where many of my predecessors have excelled me in all kinds ; and some of my contemporaries, even in my own partial judgment, have outdone me in Comedy.
Sida 145 - With thee conversing I forget all time ; All seasons and their change, all please alike. Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, With charm of earliest birds...
Sida 400 - Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrowed his mind, And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Sida 107 - I boldly answer him that an heroic poet is not tied to a bare representation of what is true, or exceeding probable : but that he may let himself loose to visionary objects, and to the representation of such things as, depending not on sense and therefore not to be comprehended by knowledge, may give him a freer scope for imagination.

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