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Desire of power, on earth a vicious weed, Yet, sprung from high, is of celestial seed: In God 'tisglory and when men aspire, 'Tis but a spark too much of heavenly fire.
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
Men
Heavenly
Sprung
Seeds
Celestial
Fire
Spark
High
Vicious
Desire
Sparks
Power
Aspire
Earth
Seed
Much
Weed
More quotes by John Dryden
He who would search for pearls must dive below.
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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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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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I never saw any good that came of telling truth.
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Fool, not to know that love endures no tie, And Jove but laughs at lovers' perjury.
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A good conscience is a port which is landlocked on every side, where no winds can possibly invade. There a man may not only see his own image, but that of his Maker, clearly reflected from the undisturbed waters.
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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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I am resolved to grow fat and look young till forty, and then slip out of the world with the first wrinkle and the reputation of five-and-twenty.
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Every age has a kind of universal genius, which inclines those that live in it to some particular studies.
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An hour will come, with pleasure to relate Your sorrows past, as benefits of Fate.
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Trust reposed in noble natures obliges them the more.
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I feel my sinews slackened with the fright, and a cold sweat trills down all over my limbs, as if I were dissolving into water.
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An horrible stillness first invades our ear, And in that silence we the tempest fear.
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Heroic poetry has ever been esteemed the greatest work of human nature.
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Having mourned your sin, for outward Eden lost, find paradise within.
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Wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
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Fool that I was, upon my eagle's wings I bore this wren, till I was tired with soaring, and now he mounts above me.
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So poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade.
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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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Reason to rule, mercy to forgive: The first is law, the last prerogative. Life is an adventure in forgiveness.
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