Confidence is the feeling we have before knowing all the facts.
JOHN DRYDENPity melts the mind to love.
More John Dryden Quotes
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Fattened in vice, so callous and so gross, he sins and sees not, senseless of his loss.
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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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Virtue in distress, and vice in triumph make atheists of mankind.
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Satire among the Romans, but not among the Greeks, was a bitter invective poem.
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Dreams are but interludes that fancy makes… Sometimes forgotten things, long cast behind Rush forward in the brain, and come to mind.
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If by the people you understand the multitude, the hoi polloi, ’tis no matter what they think; they are sometimes in the right, sometimes in the wrong; their judgment is a mere lottery.
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An hour will come, with pleasure to relate Your sorrows past, as benefits of Fate.
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If you have lived, take thankfully the past. Make, as you can, the sweet remembrance last.
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He look’d in years, yet in his years were seen A youthful vigor, and autumnal green.
JOHN DRYDEN -
But love’s a malady without a cure.
JOHN DRYDEN -
Forgiveness to the injured does belong; but they ne’er pardon who have done wrong.
JOHN DRYDEN -
Dancing is the poetry of the foot.
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For truth has such a face and such a mien, as to be loved needs only to be seen.
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For your ignorance is the mother of your devotion to me.
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And plenty makes us poor.
JOHN DRYDEN -
The conscience of a people is their power.
JOHN DRYDEN -
Freedom which in no other land will thrive, Freedom an English subject’s sole prerogative.
JOHN DRYDEN -
While I am compassed round With mirth, my soul lies hid in shades of grief, Whence, like the bird of night, with half-shut eyes, She peeps, and sickens at the sight of day.
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So softly death succeeded life in her, She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.
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What passion cannot music raise and quell!
JOHN DRYDEN -
So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.
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They live too long who happiness outlive.
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Satire is a kind of poetry in which human vices are reprehended.
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Zeal, the blind conductor of the will.
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Parting is worse than death; it is death of love!
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Some of our philosophizing divines have too much exalted the faculties of our souls, when they have maintained that by their force mankind has been able to find out God.
JOHN DRYDEN