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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
Forced
Fowl
Flight
Floods
Winter
Hasty
Wings
Forsake
Land
Lands
Wing
Happier
Flood
Fowls
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They, who would combat general authority with particular opinion, must first establish themselves a reputation of understanding better than other men.
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For what can power give more than food and drink, To live at ease, and not be bound to think?
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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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Dancing is the poetry of the foot.
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Griefs assured are felt before they come.
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A happy genius is the gift of nature.
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When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat Yet, fooled with hope, men favour the deceit Trust on, and think tomorrow will repay. Tomorrow's falser than the former day.
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Mankind is ever the same, and nothing lost out of nature, though everything is altered.
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I strongly wish for what I faintly hope like the daydreams of melancholy men, I think and think in things impossible, yet love to wander in that golden maze.
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Possess your soul with patience.
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Pleasure never comes sincere to man but lent by heaven upon hard usury.
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Ev'n wit's a burthen, when it talks too long.
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He who would pry behind the scenes oft sees a counterfeit.
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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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Virtue in distress, and vice in triumph make atheists of mankind.
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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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And after hearing what our Church can say, If still our reason runs another way, That private reason 'tis more just to curb, Than by disputes the public peace disturb For points obscure are of small use to learn, But common quiet is mankind's concern.
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For thee, sweet month the groves green liveries wear. If not the first, the fairest of the year For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers. When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.
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All habits gather by unseen degrees.
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None are so busy as the fool and the knave.
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