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Be fair, or foul, or rain, or shine, The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not heaven itself upon the past has power But what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.
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
Hours
Shining
Heaven
Fair
Upon
Hour
Foul
Past
Rain
Joys
Power
Mines
Shine
Mine
Possessed
Fate
Spite
Joy
Fairs
More quotes by John Dryden
Anger will never disappear so long as thoughts of resentment are cherished in the mind. Anger will disappear just as soon as thoughts of resentment are forgotten.
John Dryden
Long pains, with use of bearing, are half eased.
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For thee, sweet month the groves green liveries wear. If not the first, the fairest of the year For thee the Graces lead the dancing hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers. When thy short reign is past, the feverish sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on.
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Courage from hearts and not from numbers grows.
John Dryden
Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.
John Dryden
For every inch that is not fool, is rogue.
John Dryden
Whistling to keep myself from being afraid.
John Dryden
Learn to write well, or not to write at all.
John Dryden
Zeal, the blind conductor of the will.
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Farewell, too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own.
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No government has ever been, or can ever be, wherein time-servers and blockheads will not be uppermost.
John Dryden
Every age has a kind of universal genius, which inclines those that live in it to some particular studies.
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The Jews, a headstrong, moody, murmuring race.
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Better one suffer than a nation grieve.
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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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The perverseness of my fate is such that he's not mine because he's mine too much.
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How blessed is he, who leads a country life, Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife! Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage, Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age: All who deserve his love, he makes his own And, to be lov'd himself, needs only to be known.
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Even kings but play and when their part is done, some other, worse or better, mounts the throne.
John Dryden
And that one hunting, which the Devil design'd For one fair female, lost him half the kind.
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The blushing beauties of a modest maid.
John Dryden