Our souls sit close and silently within, And their own web from their own entrails spin; And when eyes meet far off, our sense is such, That, spider-like, we feel the tenderest touch.
JOHN DRYDENSatire among the Romans, but not among the Greeks, was a bitter invective poem.
More John Dryden Quotes
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God never made his work for man to mend.
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There is a pleasure in being mad, which none but madmen know.
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Nor is the people’s judgment always true: the most may err as grossly as the few.
JOHN DRYDEN -
No government has ever been, or can ever be, wherein time-servers and blockheads will not be uppermost.
JOHN DRYDEN -
So the false spider, when her nets are spread, deep ambushed in her silent den does lie.
JOHN DRYDEN -
We by art unteach what Nature taught.
JOHN DRYDEN -
But love’s a malady without a cure.
JOHN DRYDEN -
Repentance is but want of power to sin.
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For all the happiness mankind can gain Is not in pleasure, but in rest from pain.
JOHN DRYDEN -
The love of liberty with life is given, And life itself the inferior gift of Heaven.
JOHN DRYDEN -
War is the trade of kings.
JOHN DRYDEN -
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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There is a proud modesty in merit.
JOHN DRYDEN -
Men are but children of a larger growth, Our appetites as apt to change as theirs, And full as craving too, and full as vain.
JOHN DRYDEN -
Forgiveness to the injured does belong; but they ne’er pardon who have done wrong.
JOHN DRYDEN