John Dryden

But far more numerous was the herd of such,
Who think too little, and who talk too much.

But far more numerous was the herd of such,
Who think too little, and who talk too much.

The winds that never moderation knew,
Afraid to blow too much, too faintly blew;
Or out of read more

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.

'Tis Fate that flings the dice,
And as she flings
Of kings makes peasants,
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'Tis Fate that flings the dice,
And as she flings
Of kings makes peasants,
And of peasants kings.

All objects lose by too familiar a view.

All objects lose by too familiar a view.

He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.

He raised a mortal to the skies;
She drew an angel down.