Epilogue To "Albion And Albanius."

    After our Æsop's fable shown to-day,
    I come to give the moral of the play.
    Feign'd Zeal, you saw, set out the speedier pace:
    But the last heat, Plain Dealing won the race:
    Plain Dealing for a jewel has been known;
    But ne'er till now the jewel of a crown.
    When Heaven made man, to show the work divine,
    Truth was His image stamp'd upon the coin:
    And when a king is to a god refined,
    On all he says and does he stamps his mind:
    This proves a soul without alloy, and pure;
    Kings, like their gold, should every touch endure.
    To dare in fields is valour; but how few
    Dare be so thoroughly valiant,--to be true!
    The name of great let other kings affect:
    He's great indeed, the prince that is direct.
    His subjects know him now, and trust him more
    Than all their kings, and all their laws before.
    What safety could their public acts afford?
    Those he can break; but cannot break his word.
    So great a trust to him alone was due;
    Well have they trusted whom so well they knew.
    The saint, who walk'd on waves, securely trod,
    While he believed the beckoning of his God:
    But when his faith no longer bore him out,
    Began to sink, as he began to doubt.
    Let us our native character maintain;
    'Tis of our growth to be sincerely plain.
    To excel in truth we loyally may strive,
    Set privilege against prerogative:
    He plights his faith, and we believe him just;
    His honour is to promise, ours to trust.
    Thus Britain's basis on a word is laid,
    As by a word the world itself was made.

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

To The Lord Chancellor Hyde.[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

To My Friend Mr Motteux,[1] On His Tragedy Called "Beauty In Distress."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Epilogue To The Second Part Of The Conquest Of Granada.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Upon Young Mr Rogers Of Gloucestershire.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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Prologue To "King Arthur." Spoken By Mr Betterton.

    Sure there's a dearth of wit in this dull town,
    When silly plays so savourily go down;
    As, when clipt money passes, 'tis a sign
    A nation is not over-stock'd with coin.
    Happy is he who, in his own defence,
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John Dryden

To My Honoured Kinsman, John Dryden,[1] Of Chesterton, In The County Of Huntingdon, Esq.

    How bless'd is he who leads a country life,
    Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife!
    Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage,
    Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age:
    All who deserve his love, he makes his own;
    And, to be loved himself, needs only to be known.

        Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours come,
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    Without their cost, you terminate the cause;
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John Dryden

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

    We act by fits and starts, like drowning men,
    But just peep up, and then pop down again.
    Let those who call us wicked change their sense;
    For never men lived more on Providence.
    Not lottery cavaliers are half so poor,
    Nor broken cits, nor a vacation whore;
    Not courts, nor courtiers living on the rents
    Of the three last ungiving parliaments:
    So wretched, that, if Pharaoh could divine,
    He might have spared his dream of seven lean kine,
    And changed his vision for the Muses Nine.
    The comet that, they say, portends a dearth,
    Was but a vapour drawn from play-house earth:
    Pent there since our last fire, and, Lilly says,
    Foreshows our change of state, and thin third-days.
    'Tis not our want of wit that keeps us...

John Dryden

Heroic Stanzas On The Death Of Oliver Cromwell, Written After His Funeral.

And now 'tis time; for their officious haste,
    Who would before have borne him to the sky,
Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,
    Did let too soon the sacred eagle^{^[1]} fly.

Though our best notes are treason to his fame,
    Join'd with the loud applause of public voice;
Since Heaven, what praise we offer to his name,
    Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be,
    Since they, whose muses have the highest flown,
Add not to his immortal memory,
    But do an act of friendship to their own:

Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too,
    Such monuments as we can build to raise;
Lest all the world prevent what we should do,
    And claim a title in him by their praise.
...

John Dryden

Prologue To "Albion And Albanius."

    Full twenty years and more, our labouring stage
    Has lost on this incorrigible age:
    Our poets, the John Ketches of the nation,
    Have seem'd to lash ye, even to excoriation:
    But still no sign remains; which plainly notes,
    You bore like heroes, or you bribed like Oates.
    What can we do, when mimicking a fop,
    Like beating nut-trees, makes a larger crop?
    Faith, we'll e'en spare our pains! and, to content you,
    Will fairly leave you what your Maker meant you.
    Satire was once your physic, wit your food:
    One nourish'd not, and t'other drew no blood:
    We now prescribe, like doctors in despair,
    The diet your weak appetites can bear.
    Since hearty beef and mutton will not do,
    Here's julep-dance, ptisan of song and sho...

John Dryden

To My Honoured Friend Dr Charleton

On His Learned And Useful Works; But More Particularly His Treatise Of Stonehenge,^[1] By Him Restored To The True Founder.


    The longest tyranny that ever sway'd,
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    Their free-born reason to the Stagyrite,
    And made his torch their universal light.
    So truth, while only one supplied the state,
    Grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate.
    Still it was bought, like empiric wares, or charms,
    Hard words seal'd up with Artistotle's arms.
    Columbus was the first that shook his throne,
    And found a temperate in a torrid zone,
    The feverish air fann'd by a cooling breeze,
    The fruitful vales set round with shady trees:
    And guiltless men, who danced away their time,
    Fresh...

John Dryden