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Be ye therefore perfect, even as your Father which is in heaven is perfect.—Bible, Matthew 5:48
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All his perfections were so rare,
The wit of man could not declare
Which single virtue, or which grace
Above the rest had any place.—SAMUEL BUTLER, Hudibras's Elegy
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Oh! she was perfect past all parallel—
Of any modern female saint's comparison.—BYRON, Don Juan
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Everything splendid is rare, and nothing is harder to find than perfection.—CICERO, De Amicitia
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The microscope cannot find the animalcule which is less perfect for being little.—EMERSON, Essays
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The desire of perfection is the worst disease that ever afflicted the
human mind.—FONTANES
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The very pink of perfection.—GOLDSMITH, She Stoops to Conquer
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Were she perfect, one would admire her more, but love her less.—C. HARTLEY GRATTAN
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Trifles make perfection, and perfection is no trifle.—MICHELANGELO
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God made thee perfect, not immutable.—MILTON, Paradise Lost
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'Tis true, perfection none must hope to find
In all the world, much less in womankind.—POPE, January and May
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Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn'd to serve
Humbly call'd mistress.—SHAKESPEARE, All's Well that Ends Well
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She did make defect perfection.—SHAKESPEARE, Antony and Cleopatra
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Thou art the nonpareil.—SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth
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I had else been perfect,
Whole as the marble, founded as the rock,
As broad and general as the casing air.—SHAKESPEARE, Macbeth
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How many things by season season'd are
To their right praise and true perfection!—SHAKESPEARE, The Merchant of Venice
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But you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature's best!—SHAKESPEARE, The Tempest
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If, one by one, you wedded all the world,
Or from the all that are took something good,
To make a perfect woman, she you kill'd
Would be unparallel'd.—SHAKESPEARE, The Winter's Tale
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Every thing that grows Holds in perfection but a little moment.—SHAKESPEARE, Sonnet XV
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No perfect thing is too small for eternal recollection.—ARTHUR SYMONS
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I thought I could not breathe in that fine air,
That pure severity of perfect light.—TENNYSON, Idylls of the King
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In this broad earth of ours,
Amid the measureless grossness and the slag,
Enclosed and safe within its central heart,
Nestles the seed Perfection.—WALT WHITMAN, Song of the Universal