John Dryden Quotes

Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs; being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes; being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears; what is it else? A madness most discreet, a choking gall, and a preserving sweet.

He that's in love, i' faith, even if he is hungry, isn't hungry at all.

Desire doubled is love and love doubled is madness.

Yes, it's crazy. Love is either crazy or it's nothing at all.

Yes, I was a fool, but I was in love, and though I was suffering the greatest misery I had ever known I would not have had it otherwise for all the riches of Barsoom. Such is love, and such are lovers wherever love is known.

I loved her, atom by atom, one burning cell at a time.

I love the ground under his feet, and the air over his head, and everything he touches and every word he says. I love all his looks, and all his actions and him entirely and all together.

A good, true, intense love is not complete without madness.

When love is not madness, it is not love.

Love is not altogether a delirium, yet it has many points in common therewith.

Who loves, raves.

And love was creation's source,creation's ruler; but all love's ways are strewn with blossoms and blood, blossoms and blood.

You are everything that's ever been my favourite thing," she wanted to tell him. "You're my love song, my birthday cake, the sound of ocean waves and French words and a baby's laugh. You're a snow angel, crème brulée, a kaleidoscope filled with glitter. I love you and you'll never catch up, because I've gotten a head start and my heart is racing at light speed.

Love is something sent from Heaven to worry the Hell out of you.

Passionate love is a quenchless thirst.

Love is merely a madness.

Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul But I do love thee! and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again.

Darling -- I suppose the world would consider us absolutely crazy, but it is wonderful to feel that way, isn't it? Sort of a perpetual springtime in our hearts.

My love runs by like a day in June, And he makes no friends of sorrows. He'll tread his galloping rigadoon In the pathway of the morrows. He'll live his days where the sunbeams start, Nor could storm or wind uproot him. My own dear love, he is all my heart, -- And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

Love is blind, but desire just doesn't give a good goddamn

Every lover is, in his heart, a madman, and, in his head, a minstrel.

love, which is a madness, and a scourge, and a fever, and a delusion, and a snare, is also a mystery, and very imperfectly understood by everyone except the individual sufferer who writhes under its tortures.