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With odorous oil thy head and hair are sleek And then thou kemb'st the tuzzes on thy cheek: Of these, my barbers take a costly care.
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
Thou
Hair
Odorous
Head
Sleek
Care
Barbers
Take
Costly
Cheek
Cheeks
Oil
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Not to ask is not be denied.
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I strongly wish for what I faintly hope like the daydreams of melancholy men, I think and think in things impossible, yet love to wander in that golden maze.
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Wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
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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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Bankrupt of life, yet prodigal of ease.
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For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.
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Like pilgrims to th' appointed place we tend The World's an Inn, and Death the journey's end.
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Boldness is a mask for fear, however great.
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For your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
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Zeal, the blind conductor of the will.
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When we view elevated ideas of Nature, the result of that view is admiration, which is always the cause of pleasure.
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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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If the faults of men in orders are only to be judged among themselves, they are all in some sort parties for, since they say the honour of their order is concerned in every member of it, how can we be sure that they will be impartial judges?
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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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Better to hunt in fields, for health unbought, Than fee the doctor for a nauseous draught, The wise, for cure, on exercise depend God never made his work for man to mend.
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I learn to pity woes so like my own.
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Politicians neither love nor hate.
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He wants worth who dares not praise a foe.
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Parting is worse than death it is death of love!
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What I have left is from my native spring I've still a heart that swells, in scorn of fate, And lifts me to my banks.
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