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Ever a glutton, at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.
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
Ever
Cookery
Dwells
Frost
Perpetual
Kitchen
Cost
Whose
Another
Glutton
More quotes by John Dryden
Deathless laurel is the victor's due.
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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.
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Plots, true or false, are necessary things, To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings.
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Farewell, too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own.
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I am devilishly afraid, that's certain but ... I'll sing, that I may seem valiant.
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Who climbs the grammar-tree, distinctly knows Where noun, and verb, and participle grows.
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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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So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade.
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And write whatever Time shall bring to pass With pens of adamant on plates of brass.
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Then we upon our globe's last verge shall go, And view the ocean leaning on the sky: From thence our rolling Neighbours we shall know, And on the Lunar world securely pry.
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Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.
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A man is to be cheated into passion, but to be reasoned into truth.
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Maintain your post: That's all the fame you need For 'tis impossible you should proceed.
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A farce is that in poetry which grotesque (caricature) is in painting. The persons and actions of a farce are all unnatural, and the manners false, that is, inconsistent with the characters of mankind and grotesque painting is the just resemblance of this.
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To so perverse a sex all grace is vain.
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Imagination in a poet is a faculty so wild and lawless that, like a high ranging spaniel, it must have clogs tied to it, lest it outrun the judgment. The great easiness of blank verse renders the poet too luxuriant. He is tempted to say many things which might better be omitted, or, at least shut up in fewer words.
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The scum that rises upmost, when the nation boils.
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A knock-down argument 'tis but a word and a blow.
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He with a graceful pride, While his rider every hand survey'd, Sprung loose, and flew into an escapade Not moving forward, yet with every bound Pressing, and seeming still to quit his ground.
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Dead men tell no tales.
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