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Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.
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
Eagles
Stupid
Soar
Upon
Bores
Mounts
Assistance
Wren
Aids
Wrens
Till
Soaring
Wings
Eagle
Tired
Bore
More quotes by John Dryden
He wants worth who dares not praise a foe.
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Rhyme is the rock on which thou art to wreck.
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Restless at home, and ever prone to range.
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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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Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.
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For your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
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My whole life Has been a golden dream of love and friendship.
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If all the world be worth thy winning. / Think, oh think it worth enjoying: / Lovely Thaïs sits beside thee, / Take the good the gods provide thee.
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Railing in other men may be a crime, But ought to pass for mere instinct in him: Instinct he follows and no further knows, For to write verse with him is to transprose.
John Dryden
Long pains, with use of bearing, are half eased.
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Death in itself is nothing but we fear to be we know not what, we know not where.
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He was exhaled his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
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With odorous oil thy head and hair are sleek And then thou kemb'st the tuzzes on thy cheek: Of these, my barbers take a costly care.
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The soft complaining flute, In dying notes, discovers The woes of hopeless lovers.
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The thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man.
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Lucky men are favorites of Heaven.
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Love is a child that talks in broken language, yet then he speaks most plain.
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When Misfortune is asleep, let no one wake her.
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How happy the lover, How easy his chain, How pleasing his pain, How sweet to discover He sighs not in vain.
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They think too little who talk too much.
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