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Murder may pass unpunishd for a time, But tardy justice will oertake the crime.
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
Crime
Justice
May
Time
Tardy
Murder
Pass
More quotes by John Dryden
Wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
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Arts and sciences in one and the same century have arrived at great perfection and no wonder, since every age has a kind of universal genius, which inclines those that live in it to some particular studies the work then, being pushed on by many hands, must go forward.
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They that possess the prince possess the laws.
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Want is a bitter and a hateful good, Because its virtues are not understood Yet many things, impossible to thought, Have been by need to full perfection brought. The daring of the soul proceeds from thence, Sharpness of wit, and active diligence Prudence at once, and fortitude it gives And, if in patience taken, mends our lives.
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Fiction is of the essence of poetry as well as of painting there is a resemblance in one of human bodies, things, and actions which are not real, and in the other of a true story by fiction.
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Second thoughts, they say, are best.
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Let Fortune empty her whole quiver on me, I have a soul that, like an ample shield, Can take in all, and verge enough for more Fate was not mine, nor am I Fate's: Souls know no conquerors.
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When he spoke, what tender words he used! So softly, that like flakes of feathered snow, They melted as they fell.
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An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
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More liberty begets desire of more The hunger still increases with the store
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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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You see through love, and that deludes your sight, As what is straight seems crooked through the water.
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Old age creeps on us ere we think it nigh.
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For danger levels man and brute And all are fellows in their need.
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The bravest men are subject most to chance.
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Ever a glutton, at another's cost, But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.
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Truth is the object of our understanding, as good is of our will and the understanding can no more be delighted with a lie than the will can choose an apparent evil.
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Much malice mingled with a little wit Perhaps may censure this mysterious writ.
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But love's a malady without a cure.
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Light sufferings give us leisure to complain.
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