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Never was patriot yet, but was a fool.
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
Fool
Never
Patriot
Patriotic
Patriotism
More quotes by John Dryden
Riches cannot rescue from the grave, which claims alike the monarch and the slave.
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Beware the fury of a patient man.
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A knock-down argument 'tis but a word and a blow.
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Even kings but play and when their part is done, some other, worse or better, mounts the throne.
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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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For every inch that is not fool, is rogue.
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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.
John Dryden
Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease.
John Dryden
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
John Dryden
If the faults of men in orders are only to be judged among themselves, they are all in some sort parties for, since they say the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we be sure that they will be impartial judges?
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I'm a little wounded, but I am not slain I will lay me down to bleed a while. Then I'll rise and fight again.
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Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.
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I maintain, against the enemies of the stage, that patterns of piety, decently represented, may second the precepts.
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Politicians neither love nor hate.
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Silence in times of suffering is the best.
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Fiction is of the essence of poetry as well as of painting there is a resemblance in one of human bodies, things, and actions which are not real, and in the other of a true story by fiction.
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Desire of power, on earth a vicious weed, Yet, sprung from high, is of celestial seed: In God 'tisglory and when men aspire, 'Tis but a spark too much of heavenly fire.
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Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend: Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.
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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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Imitators are but a servile kind of cattle.
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