A Song.

        Go tell Amynta, gentle swain,
        I would not die, nor dare complain:
        Thy tuneful voice with numbers join,
        Thy words will more prevail than mine.
        To souls oppress'd and dumb with grief,
        The gods ordain this kind relief;
        That music should in sounds convey,
        What dying lovers dare not say.

        A sigh or tear perhaps she'll give,
        But love on pity cannot live.
        Tell her that hearts for hearts were made,
        And love with love is only paid.
        Tell her my pains so fast increase,
        That soon they will be past redress;
        But ah! the wretch that speechless lies,
        Attends but death to close his eyes.

John Dryden

John Dryden was an influential English poet, literary critic, translator, and playwright who was made England’s first Poet Laureate in 1668. His work dominated the literary life of Restoration England and he is seen as a major figure in the literary history of the period. Dryden's notable works include the satirical poem 'Absalom and Achitophel' and the mock-heroic 'Mac Flecknoe.'

John Dryden

Prologue To "Circe," A Tragic Opera; By Dr Davenant,[1] 1675.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Epilogue, Spoken At Oxford, By Mrs Marshall.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

The Tears Of Amynta, For The Death Of Damon.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Epilogue To Amboyna.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

A Song.

        Fair, sweet, and young, receive a prize
        Reserved for your victorious eyes:
        From crowds, whom at your feet you see,
        O pity, and distinguish me!
        As I from thousand beauties more
        Distinguish you, and only you adore.

        Your face for conquest was design'd,
        Your every motion charms my mind;
        Angels, when you your silence break,
        Forget their hymns, to hear you speak;
        But when at once they hear and view,
        Are loth to mount, and long to stay with you.

        No graces can your form improve,
        But all are lost, unless you love;
        While that sweet passion you disdain,
        Your veil and beauty are in vain:
        In pity then prevent my fate,
    ...

John Dryden

Song In The "Maiden Queen."

    I feed a flame within, which so torments me,
    That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:
    'Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it,
    That I had rather die than once remove it.

    Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it:
    My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes show it.
    Not a sigh, not a tear, my pain discloses,
    But they fall silently, like dew on roses.

    Thus, to prevent my love from being cruel,
    My heart's the sacrifice, as 'tis the fuel:
    And while I suffer this to give him quiet,
    My faith rewards my love, though he deny it.

    On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;
    Where I conceal my love no frown can fright me:
    To be more happy, I dare not aspire;
    Nor can I fall more lo...

John Dryden

The Tears Of Amynta, For The Death Of Damon.

On a bank, beside a willow,
Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,
Sad Amynta sigh'd alone:
From the cheerless dawn of morning
Till the dews of night returning,
Singing thus she made her moan:
Hope is banish'd,
Joys are vanish'd,
Damon, my beloved, is gone!

Time, I dare thee to discover
Such a youth and such a lover;
Oh, so true, so kind was he!
Damon was the pride of nature,
Charming in his every feature;
Damon lived alone for me;
Melting kisses,
Murmuring blisses:
Who so lived and loved as we?

Never shall we curse the morning.
Never bless the night returning,
Sweet embraces to restore:
Never shall we both lie dying,
Nature failing, Love supplying
All the joys he drain'd before:

Death come end me,

John Dryden

Rondelay.

        Chloe found Amyntas lying,
            All in tears upon the plain;
        Sighing to himself, and crying,
            Wretched I, to love in vain!
        Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
            Kiss me once, and ease my pain!

        Sighing to himself, and crying,
            Wretched I, to love in vain!
        Ever scorning and denying
            To reward your faithful swain:
        Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
            Kiss me once, and ease my pain:

        Ever scorning, and denying
            To reward your faithful swain:
        Chloe, laughing at his crying,
            Told him, that he loved in vain:
        Kiss me, dear, before my dying;
            Kiss me once, and ease my pain!

        Chloe...

John Dryden

Song. Farewell, Fair Armida.

    Farewell, fair Armida, my joy and my grief,
    In vain I have loved you, and hope no relief;
    Undone by your virtue, too strict and severe,
    Your eyes gave me love, and you gave me despair;
    Now call'd by my honour, I seek with content
    The fate which in pity you would not prevent:
    To languish in love, were to find by delay
    A death that's more welcome the speediest way.
    On seas and in battles, in bullets and fire,
    The danger is less than in hopeless desire;
    My death's-wound you give, though far off I bear
    My fall from your sight--not to cost you a tear:
    But if the kind flood on a wave should convey,
    And under your window my body should lay,
    The wound on my breast when you happen to see,
    You'll say with a sigh...

John Dryden

Songs In "The Conquest Of Granada."

I.

    Wherever I am, and whatever I do,
    My Phyllis is still in my mind;
    When angry, I mean not to Phyllis to go,
    My feet, of themselves, the way find:
    Unknown to myself I am just at her door,
    And when I would rail, I can bring out no more,
    Than, Phyllis too fair and unkind!

    When Phyllis I see, my heart bounds in my breast,
    And the love I would stifle is shown;
    But asleep or awake I am never at rest,
    When from my eyes Phyllis is gone.
    Sometimes a sad dream does delude my sad mind;
    But, alas! when I wake, and no Phyllis I find,
    How I sigh to myself all alone!

    Should a king be my rival in her I adore,
    He should offer his treasure in vain:
    Oh, let me alone to be happy and poor,...

John Dryden