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Farewell, too little, and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own.
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
Call
Known
Littles
Little
Think
Thinking
Lately
Farewell
Began
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Youth should watch joys and shoot them as they fly.
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Honor is but an empty bubble.
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Fool, not to know that love endures no tie, And Jove but laughs at lovers' perjury.
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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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Imagination in a poet is a faculty so wild and lawless that, like a high ranging spaniel, it must have clogs tied to it, lest it outrun the judgment. The great easiness of blank verse renders the poet too luxuriant. He is tempted to say many things which might better be omitted, or, at least shut up in fewer words.
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By viewing nature, nature's handmaid art, Makes mighty things from small beginnings grow: Thus fishes first to shipping did impart, Their tail the rudder, and their head the prow.
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Either be wholly slaves or wholly free.
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Riches cannot rescue from the grave, which claims alike the monarch and the slave.
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Zeal, the blind conductor of the will.
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Railing in other men may be a crime, But ought to pass for mere instinct in him: Instinct he follows and no further knows, For to write verse with him is to transprose.
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New vows to plight, and plighted vows to break.
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A narrow mind begets obstinacy we do not easily believe what we cannot see.
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I never saw any good that came of telling truth.
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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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Government itself at length must fall To nature's state, where all have right to all.
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[T]he Famous Rules which the French call, Des Trois Unitez , or, The Three Unities, which ought to be observ'd in every Regular Play namely, of Time, Place, and Action.
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None are so busy as the fool and the knave.
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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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If you are for a merry jaunt, I will try, for once, who can foot it farthest.
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Bets at first were fool-traps, where the wise like spiders lay in ambush for the flies.
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