Epilogue To Amboyna.

    A Poet once the Spartans led to fight,
    And made them conquer in the muse's right;
    So would our poet lead you on this day,
    Showing your tortured fathers in his play.
    To one well born the affront is worse, and more,
    When he's abused and baffled by a boor:
    With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do,
    They've both ill nature and ill manners too.
    Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation,
    For they were bred ere manners were in fashion,
    And their new commonwealth has set them free,
    Only from honour and civility.
    Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,
    Than did their lubber state mankind bestride;
    Their sway became them with as ill a mien,
    As their own paunches swell above their chin:
    Yet is their empire no true growth, but humour,
    And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour.
    As Cato did his Afric fruits display,
    So we before your eyes their Indies lay:
    All loyal English will, like him, conclude,
    Let Cæsar live, and Carthage be subdued!

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

On The Young Statesmen.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

To The Pious Memory Of The Accomplished Young Lady Mrs Anne Killigrew,[1] Excellent In The Two Sister Arts Of Poesy And Painting.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "Sophonisba,"

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

To Mr Southerne, On His Comedy Called "The Wives' Excuse."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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Prologue To Amboyna.[1]

    As needy gallants in the scrivener's hands,
    Court the rich knave that gripes their mortgaged lands,
    The first fat buck of all the season's sent,
    And keeper takes no fee in compliment:
    The dotage of some Englishmen is such,
    To fawn on those who ruin them--the Dutch.
    They shall have all, rather than make a war
    With those who of the same religion are.
    The Straits, the Guinea trade, the herrings too,
    Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you.
    Some are resolved not to find out the cheat,
    But, cuckold-like, love him who does the feat:
    What injuries soe'er upon us fall,
    Yet, still the same religion answers all:
    Religion wheedled you to civil war,
    Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now would spare:
 ...

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

Satire On The Dutch.[1]

Written In The Year 1662.

    As needy gallants, in the scrivener's hands,
    Court the rich knaves that gripe their mortgaged lands;
    The first fat buck of all the season's sent,
    And keeper takes no fee in compliment;
    The dotage of some Englishmen is such,
    To fawn on those who ruin them--the Dutch.
    They shall have all, rather than make a war
    With those, who of the same religion are.
    The Straits, the Guinea-trade, the herrings too;
    Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you.
    Some are resolved not to find out the cheat,
    But, cuckold-like, love them that do the feat.
    What injuries soe'er upon us fall,
    Yet still the same religion answers all.
    Religion wheedled us to civil war,
    Drew English blood, a...

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

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,
    From your award to wait their final doom;
    And, foes before, return in friendship home.
    Without their cost, you terminate the cause;
    And save the expense of long litigious laws:
    Where suits are traversed; and so little won,
    That he who conquers, is but last undone:
    Such are not your decrees; but so design'd,
    The sanction leaves a lasting peace behind;
    Like your own soul, sere...

John Dryden

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