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Fowls, by winter forced, forsake the floods, and wing their hasty flight to happier lands.
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
Flight
Floods
Winter
Hasty
Wings
Forsake
Land
Lands
Wing
Happier
Flood
Fowls
Forced
Fowl
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Take not away the life you cannot give: For all things have an equal right to live.
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I am resolved to grow fat and look young till forty, and then slip out of the world with the first wrinkle and the reputation of five-and-twenty.
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To so perverse a sex all grace is 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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So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade.
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The poorest of the sex have still an itch To know their fortunes, equal to the rich. The dairy-maid inquires, if she shall take The trusty tailor, and the cook forsake.
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Better to hunt in fields, for health unbought, Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught, The wise, for cure, on exercise depend God never made his work for man to mend.
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Here lies my wife: here let her lie! Now she's at rest, and so am I.
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Beware the fury of a patient man.
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When I consider life, it is all a cheat. Yet fooled with hope, people favor this deceit.
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Mankind is ever the same, and nothing lost out of nature, though everything is altered.
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Fortune's unjust she ruins oft the brave, and him who should be victor, makes the slave.
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Doeg, though without knowing how or why, Made still a blundering kind of melody Spurr'd boldly on, and dash'd through thick and thin, Through sense and nonsense, never out nor in Free from all meaning whether good or bad, And in one word, heroically mad.
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Confidence is the feeling we have before knowing all the facts
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The Jews, a headstrong, moody, murmuring race.
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not judging truth to be in nature better than falsehood, but setting a value upon both according to interest.
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An hour will come, with pleasure to relate Your sorrows past, as benefits of Fate.
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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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