Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age. – John Dryden
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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. – John Dryden
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He invades authors like a monarch; and what would be theft in other poets is only victory in him. – John Dryden
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