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They that possess the prince possess the laws.
John Dryden
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John Dryden
Age: 68 †
Born: 1631
Born: August 7
Died: 1700
Died: May 12
Hymnwriter
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Translator
Aldwincle
Northamptonshire
Prince
Possess
Laws
Politics
Law
Political
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The greater part performed achieves the less.
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And that one hunting, which the Devil design'd For one fair female, lost him half the kind.
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My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love in public and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.
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Forgiveness to the injured does belong but they ne'er pardon who have done wrong.
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Of all the tyrannies on human kind the worst is that which persecutes the mind.
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None, none descends into himself, to find The secret imperfections of his mind: But every one is eagle-ey'd to see Another's faults, and his deformity.
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For granting we have sinned, and that the offence Of man is made against Omnipotence, Some price that bears proportion must be paid, And infinite with infinite be weighed.
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Want is a bitter and a hateful good, Because its virtues are not understood Yet many things, impossible to thought, Have been by need to full perfection brought. The daring of the soul proceeds from thence, Sharpness of wit, and active diligence Prudence at once, and fortitude it gives And, if in patience taken, mends our lives.
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For all the happiness mankind can gain Is not in pleasure, but in rest from pain.
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…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky
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An hour will come, with pleasure to relate Your sorrows past, as benefits of Fate.
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What I have left is from my native spring I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks.
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Maintain your post: That's all the fame you need For 'tis impossible you should proceed.
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Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
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They think too little who talk too much.
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If we from wealth to poverty descend, Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend.
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Let cheerfulness on happy fortune wait.
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The wretched have no friends.
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Who climbs the grammar-tree, distinctly knows Where noun, and verb, and participle grows.
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