A happy genius is the gift of nature.
JOHN DRYDENOur vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes care To grant, before we can conclude the prayer: Preventing angels met it half the way, And sent us back to praise, who came to pray.
More John Dryden Quotes
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Satire among the Romans, but not among the Greeks, was a bitter invective poem.
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By education most have been misled.
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Him of the western dome, whose weighty sense Flows in fit words and heavenly eloquence.
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Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace.
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And plenty makes us poor.
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Only man clogs his happiness with care, destroying what is with thoughts of what may be.
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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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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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Deathless laurel is the victor’s due.
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Let grace and goodness be the principal loadstone of thy affections. For love which hath ends, will have an end; whereas that which is founded on true virtue, will always continue.
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Sculptors are obliged to follow the manners of the painters, and to make many ample folds, which are unsufferable hardness, and more like a rock than a natural garment.
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Our vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes care To grant, before we can conclude the prayer: Preventing angels met it half the way, And sent us back to praise, who came to pray.
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I am as free as nature first made man, Ere the base laws of servitude began, When wild in woods the noble savage ran.
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Go miser go, for money sell your soul. Trade wares for wares and trudge from pole to pole, So others may say when you are dead and gone. See what a vast estate he left his son.
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Since every man who lives is born to die, And none can boast sincere felicity, With equal mind, what happens, let us bear, Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care. Like pilgrims to the’ appointed place we tend; The world’s an inn, and death the journey’s end.
JOHN DRYDEN