Epilogue, Intended To Have Been Spoken By The Lady Hen. Mar. Wentworth, When "Calisto"[1] Was Acted At Court.

    As Jupiter I made my court in vain;
    I'll now assume my native shape again.
    I'm weary to be so unkindly used,
    And would not be a god to be refused.
    State grows uneasy when it hinders love;
    A glorious burden, which the wise remove.
    Now, as a nymph I need not sue, nor try
    The force of any lightning but the eye.
    Beauty and youth more than a god command;
    No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand.
    'Tis here that sovereign power admits dispute;
    Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.
    Our sullen Catos, whatsoe'er they say,
    Even while they frown, and dictate laws, obey.
    You, mighty sir,^[2] our bonds more easy make,
    And gracefully, what all must suffer, take:
    Above those forms the grave affect to wear;
    For 'tis not to be wise to be severe.
    True wisdom may some gallantry admit,
    And soften business with the charms of wit.
    These peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought,
    And from the midst of fighting nations brought.
    You only hear it thunder from afar,
    And sit in peace the arbiter of war:
    Peace, the loathed manna, which hot brains despise.
    You knew its worth, and made it early prize:
    And in its happy leisure sit and see
    The promises of more felicity:
    Two glorious nymphs,^[3] of your own godlike line,
    Whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine:
    Whom you to suppliant monarchs shall dispose,
    To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.

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

Epilogue For "The King's House."[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Song Of The Sea-Fight, In Amboyna.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Epilogue To "The Man Of Mode; Or, Sir Fopling Flutter;" By Sir George Etherege, 1676.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "Troilus And Cressida."

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.

Epilogue, Spoken At Oxford, By Mrs Marshall.

    Oft has our poet wish'd, this happy seat
    Might prove his fading Muse's last retreat:
    I wonder'd at his wish, but now I find
    He sought for quiet, and content of mind;
    Which noiseful towns, and courts can never know,
    And only in the shades like laurels grow.
    Youth, ere it sees the world, here studies rest,
    And age returning thence concludes it best.
    What wonder if we court that happiness
    Yearly to share, which hourly you possess;
    Teaching even you, while the vex'd world we show,
    Your peace to value more, and better know?
    'Tis all we can return for favours past,
    Whose holy memory shall ever last;
    For patronage from him whose care presides
    O'er every noble art, and every science guides:
    Bathurst,<...

John Dryden

To Her Grace The Duchess Of Ormond,[1]

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM OF PALAMON AND ARCITE.


    MADAM,

    The bard who first adorn'd our native tongue,
    Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song:
    Which Homer might without a blush rehearse,
    And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse:
    He match'd their beauties, where they most excel;
    Of love sung better, and of arms as well.

        Vouchsafe, illustrious Ormond! to behold
    What power the charms of beauty had of old;
    Nor wonder if such deeds of arms were done,
    Inspired by two fair eyes that sparkled like your own.

        If Chaucer by the best idea wrought,
    And poets can divine each other's thought,
    The fairest nymph before his eyes he set;
    And then the fairest was Plantagenet;
 ...

John Dryden

Epilogue To The Indian Emperor, By A Mercury.

    To all and singular in this full meeting,
    Ladies and gallants, Phoebus sends ye greeting.
    To all his sons, by whate'er title known,
    Whether of court, or coffee-house, or town;
    From his most mighty sons, whose confidence
    Is placed in lofty sound, and humble sense,
    Even to his little infants of the time,
    Who write new songs, and trust in tune and rhyme
    Be 't known, that Phoebus (being daily grieved
    To see good plays condemn'd, and bad received)
    Ordains your judgment upon every cause,
    Henceforth, be limited by wholesome laws.
    He first thinks fit no sonnetteer advance
    His censure farther than the song or dance,
    Your wit burlesque may one step higher climb,
    And in his sphere may judge all doggrel rhyme;

John Dryden

To The Lady Castlemain,[1] Upon Her Encouraging His First Play.

As seamen, shipwreck'd on some happy shore,
Discover wealth in lands unknown before;
And, what their art had labour'd long in vain,
By their misfortunes happily obtain:
So my much-envied Muse, by storms long tost,
Is thrown upon your hospitable coast,
And finds more favour by her ill success,
Than she could hope for by her happiness.
Once Cato's virtue did the gods oppose;
While they the victor, he the vanquish'd chose:
But you have done what Cato could not do,
To choose the vanquish'd, and restore him too.
Let others triumph still, and gain their cause
By their deserts, or by the world's applause;
Let merit crowns, and justice laurels give,
But let me happy by your pity live.
True poets empty fame and praise despise;
Fame is the trumpet, but your smile t...

John Dryden

The Speech

The long laments I spent for ruin'd Troy,
Are dried; and now mine eyes run teares of joy.
No more shall men suppose Electra dead,
Though from the consort of her sisters fled
Unto the Artick circle, here to grace,
And gild this day with her serenest face:
And see, my daughter Iris hastes to throw
Her roseat wings in compasse of a bow,
About our State, as signe of my approach:
Attracting to her seate from Mithras coach,
A thousand different, and particular hiewes,
Which she throughout her body doth diffuse.
The Sun, as loth to part from this halfe Spheare,
Stands still; and Phoebe labors to appeare
In all as bright (if not as rich) as he:
And, for a note of more serenity,
My six faire sisters hither shift their lights;
To do this hower the utmost of her rit...

Ben Jonson

An Epilogue.

    You saw our wife was chaste, yet thoroughly tried,
    And, without doubt, ye are hugely edified;
    For, like our hero, whom we show'd to-day,
    You think no woman true, but in a play.
    Love once did make a pretty kind of show:
    Esteem and kindness in one breast would grow:
    But 'twas Heaven knows how many years ago.
    Now some small chat, and guinea expectation,
    Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation:
    In comedy your little selves you meet;
    'Tis Covent Garden drawn in Bridges Street.
    Smile on our author then, if he has shown
    A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.
    Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,
    Who act those follies, Poets toil to write!
    The sweating Muse does almost leave the chase;
    She pu...

John Dryden