All objects lose by too familiar a view.
JOHN DRYDENFowls, by winter forced, forsake the floods, and wing their hasty flight to happier lands.
More John Dryden Quotes
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So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.
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Many things impossible to thought have been by need to full perfection brought.
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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.
JOHN DRYDEN -
All authors to their own defects are blind.
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Keen appetite And quick digestion wait on you and yours.
JOHN DRYDEN -
Satire is a kind of poetry in which human vices are reprehended.
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And that the Scriptures, though not everywhere Free from corruption, or entire, or clear, Are uncorrupt, sufficient, clear, entire In all things which our needful faith require.
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For your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
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Sure there is none but fears a future state; And when the most obdurate swear they do not, Their trembling hearts belie their boasting tongues.
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At home the hateful names of parties cease, And factious souls are wearied into peace.
JOHN DRYDEN -
Imagining is in itself the very height and life of poetry, which, by a kind of enthusiasm or extraordinary emotion of the soul, makes it seem to us that we behold those things which the poet paints.
JOHN DRYDEN -
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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Great wits are sure to madness near allied, and thin partitions do their bounds divide.
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Plots, true or false, are necessary things, To raise up commonwealths and ruin kings.
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Virgil and Horace were the severest writers of the severest age.
JOHN DRYDEN -
Love is not in our choice but in our fate.
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Kings fight for empires, madmen for applause.
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O freedom, first delight of human kind!
JOHN DRYDEN -
Time glides with undiscover’d haste; The future but a length behind the past.
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The trumpet’s loud clangor Excites us to arms.
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The bravest men are subject most to chance.
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But love’s a malady without a cure.
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He who trusts secrets to a servant makes him his master.
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If thou dost still retain the same ill habits, the same follies, too, still thou art bound to vice, and still a slave.
JOHN DRYDEN -
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.
JOHN DRYDEN -
The thought of being nothing after death is a burden insupportable to a virtuous man.
JOHN DRYDEN