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My heart's so full of joy, That I shall do some wild extravagance Of love in public and the foolish world, Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad.
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
Heart
Tenderness
Love
Mad
Think
Foolish
Thinking
Wild
World
Joy
Shall
Full
Public
Extravagance
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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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I am devilishly afraid, that's certain but ... I'll sing, that I may seem valiant.
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Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
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The winds that never moderation knew, Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew Or out of breath with joy, could not enlarge Their straighten'd lungs or conscious of their charge.
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Love is love's reward.
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He is a perpetual fountain of good sense.
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Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.
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But when to sin our biased nature leans, The careful Devil is still at hand with means And providently pimps for ill desires.
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So over violent, or over civil that every man with him was God or Devil.
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But how can finite grasp Infinity?
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Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend: Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send: For each year their price is more, And they less simple than before.
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They that possess the prince possess the laws.
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Not sharp revenge, nor hell itself can find, A fiercer torment than a guilty mind, Which day and night doth dreadfully accuse, Condemns the wretch, and still the charge renews.
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Dead men tell no tales.
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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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An ugly woman in a rich habit set out with jewels nothing can become.
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