John Dryden

All, as they say, that glitters is not gold.

All, as they say, that glitters is not gold.

There is a pleasure, sure,
In being mad, which none but madmen know!

There is a pleasure, sure,
In being mad, which none but madmen know!

Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly read more

Doeg, though without knowing how or why,
Made a still a blundering kind of melody;
Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd 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.

Behold him setting in his western skies,
The shadows lengthening as the vapours rise.

Behold him setting in his western skies,
The shadows lengthening as the vapours rise.

Content with poverty, my soul I arm;
And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.

Content with poverty, my soul I arm;
And virtue, though in rags, will keep me warm.