to such a point that the period came to be known in literary circles as the Age of Dryden.
called him "Glorious John." He was made Poet Laureate
Dryden was born in the village rectory
, where his maternal grandfather was Rector of All Saints
By viewing Nature, Nature's handmaid Art,Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow.
Pains of love be sweeter farThan all other pleasures are.
I am as free as Nature first made man,Ere the base laws of servitude began,When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
Death in itself is nothing; but we fearTo be we know not what, we know not where.
When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat;Yet, fooled with hope, men favor the deceit;Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay.Tomorrow's falser than the former day.None would live past years again,Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain;And from the dregs of life think to receiveWhat the first sprightly running could not give.
Whatever is, is in its causes just.
Of no distemper, of no blast he died,But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long — Even wondered at, because he dropped no sooner.Fate seemed 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.
There is a pleasure sureIn being mad which none but madmen know.
Like a led victim, to my death I'll go, And, dying, bless the hand that gave the blow.