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Let cheerfulness on happy fortune wait.
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
Fortune
Wait
Waiting
Happy
Cheerfulness
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Dreams are but interludes, which fancy makes When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes.
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not judging truth to be in nature better than falsehood, but setting a value upon both according to interest.
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When bounteous autumn rears her head, he joys to pull the ripened pear.
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Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, But good men starve for want of impudence.
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Interest makes all seem reason that leads to it.
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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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Let Fortune empty her whole quiver on me, I have a soul that, like an ample shield, Can take in all, and verge enough for more Fate was not mine, nor am I Fate's: Souls know no conquerors.
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At home the hateful names of parties cease, And factious souls are wearied into peace.
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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.
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Order is the greatest grace.
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The brave man seeks not popular applause, Nor, overpower'd with arms, deserts his cause Unsham'd, though foil'd, he does the best he can, Force is of brutes, but honor is of man.
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Love either finds equality or makes it.
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The good we have enjoyed from Heaven's free will, and shall we murmur to endure the ill?
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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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We find few historians who have been diligent enough in their search for truth it is their common method to take on trust what they help distribute to the public by which means a falsehood once received from a famed writer becomes traditional to posterity.
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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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The wretched have no friends.
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Jealousy's a proof of love, But 'tis a weak and unavailing medicine It puts out the disease and makes it show, But has no power to cure.
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Or hast thou known the world so long in vain?
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Blown roses hold their sweetness to the last.
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