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Take not away the life you cannot give: For all things have an equal right to live.
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
Life
Away
Cannot
Give
Live
Take
Right
Giving
Things
Equal
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The conscience of a people is their power.
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Old as I am, for ladies' love unfit, The power of beauty I remember yet.
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Bacchus ever fair and young, Drinking joys did first ordain. Bachus's blessings are a treasure, Drinking is the soldier's pleasure, Rich the treasure, Sweet the pleasure- Sweet is pleasure after pain.
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The blushing beauties of a modest maid.
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Honor is but an empty bubble.
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Every language is so full of its own proprieties that what is beautiful in one is often barbarous, nay, sometimes nonsense, in another.
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The greater part performed achieves the less.
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An hour will come, with pleasure to relate Your sorrows past, as benefits of Fate.
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Or hast thou known the world so long in vain?
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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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Let cheerfulness on happy fortune wait.
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The people have a right supreme To make their kings, for Kings are made for them. All Empire is no more than Pow'r in Trust, Which when resum'd, can be no longer just. Successionm for the general good design'd, In its own wrong a Nation cannot bind.
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The end of satire is the amendment of vices by correction and he who writes honestly is no more an enemy to the offender than the physician to the patient when he prescribes harsh remedies.
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As one that neither seeks, nor shuns his foe.
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Government itself at length must fall To nature's state, where all have right to all.
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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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If we from wealth to poverty descend, Want gives to know the flatterer from the friend.
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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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Dead men tell no tales.
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Thou spring'st a leak already in thy crown, A flaw is in thy ill-bak'd vessel found 'Tis hollow, and returns a jarring sound, Yet thy moist clay is pliant to command, Unwrought, and easy to the potter's hand: Now take the mould now bend thy mind to feel The first sharp motions of the forming wheel.
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