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He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.
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
Good
Fountain
Perpetual
Sense
More quotes by John Dryden
All empire is no more than power in trust.
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Pleasure never comes sincere to man but lent by heaven upon hard usury.
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Lucky men are favorites of Heaven.
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Who climbs the grammar-tree, distinctly knows Where noun, and verb, and participle grows.
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So over violent, or over civil that every man with him was God or Devil.
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The people have a right supreme To make their kings, for Kings are made for them. All Empire is no more than Pow'r in Trust, Which when resum'd, can be no longer just. Successionm for the general good design'd, In its own wrong a Nation cannot bind.
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Thus, while the mute creation downward bend Their sight, and to their earthly mother ten, Man looks aloft and with erected eyes Beholds his own hereditary skies.
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Youth, beauty, graceful action seldom fail: But common interest always will prevail And pity never ceases to be shown To him who makes the people's wrongs his own.
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If passion rules, how weak does reason prove!
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Fool, not to know that love endures no tie, And Jove but laughs at lovers' perjury.
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Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the' appointed place we tend The world's an inn, and death the journey's end.
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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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Take not away the life you cannot give: For all things have an equal right to live.
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Reason is a crutch for age, but youth is strong enough to walk alone.
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Imitators are but a servile kind of cattle.
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A woman's counsel brought us first to woe, And made her man his paradise forego, Where at heart's ease he liv'd and might have been As free from sorrow as he was from sin.
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One cannot say he wanted wit, but rather that he was frugal of it.
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The wretched have no friends.
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Seas are the fields of combat for the winds but when they sweep along some flowery coast, their wings move mildly, and their rage is lost.
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Dancing is the poetry of the foot.
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