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Even victors are by victories undone.
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
Victors
Victories
Undone
Victory
Even
More quotes by John Dryden
Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.
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The blushing beauties of a modest maid.
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Softly sweet, in Lydian measures, Soon he sooth'd his soul to pleasures. War, he sung, is toil and trouble Honour but an empty bubble Never ending, still beginning, Fighting still, and still destroying. If all the world be worth the winning, Think, oh think it worth enjoying: Lovely Thais sits beside thee, Take the good the gods provide thee.
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For every inch that is not fool, is rogue.
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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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Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.
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A knock-down argument 'tis but a word and a blow.
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The end of satire is the amendment of vices by correction and he who writes honestly is no more an enemy to the offender than the physician to the patient when he prescribes harsh remedies.
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My love's a noble madness.
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For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.
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If you are for a merry jaunt, I will try, for once, who can foot it farthest.
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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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They think too little who talk too much.
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Courage from hearts and not from numbers grows.
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…So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky
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He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.
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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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The greater part performed achieves the less.
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Virtue in distress, and vice in triumph make atheists of mankind.
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Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes.
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