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

    Most modern wits such monstrous fools have shown,
    They seem not of Heaven's making, but their own.
    Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass;
    But there goes more to a substantial ass:
    Something of man must be exposed to view,
    That, gallants, they may more resemble you.
    Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,
    The ladies would mistake him for a wit;
    And, when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry,
    I vow, methinks, he's pretty company:
    So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refined,
    As he took pains to graff upon his kind.
    True fops help nature's work, and go to school
    To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
    Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
    He's knight o' the shire, and represents ye all.
    From each he meets he culls whate'er he can;
    Legion's his name, a people in a man.
    His bulky folly gathers as it goes,
    And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows.
    His various modes from various fathers follow;
    One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow:
    His sword-knot this, his cravat that design'd;
    And this the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
    From one the sacred periwig he gain'd,
    Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.
    Another's diving bow he did adore,
    Which with a shog casts all the hair before,
    Till he, with full decorum, brings it back,
    And rises with a water-spaniel shake.
    As for his songs, the ladies' dear delight,
    These sure he took from most of you who write.
    Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd;
    For no one fool is hunted from the herd.

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

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

To My Dear Friend Mr Congreve, On His Comedy Called "The Double-Dealer."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "The Mistakes." By Joseph Harris, Comedian, 1690. (Written By Some Other.)

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To The University Of Oxford.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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Prologue To "The Pilgrim." By Beaumont And Fletcher.

REVIVED FOR OUR AUTHOR'S BENEFIT, ANNO 1700.


    How wretched is the fate of those who write!
    Brought muzzled to the stage, for fear they bite.
    Where, like Tom Dove, they stand the common foe;
    Lugg'd by the critic, baited by the beau.
    Yet worse, their brother poets damn the play,
    And roar the loudest, though they never pay.
    The fops are proud of scandal, for they cry,
    At every lewd, low character,--That's I.
    He who writes letters to himself would swear,
    The world forgot him, if he was not there.
    What should a poet do? 'Tis hard for one
    To pleasure all the fools that would be shown:
    And yet not two in ten will pass the town.
    Most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;
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Epilogue To "The Husband His Own Cuckold." By Mr John Dryden, Jun., 1696.[1]

    Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
    So trembles a young Poet at a full pit.
    Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
    And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
    Wanting three talents needful for the place--
    Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.
    Nor is the puny Poet void of care;
    For authors, such as our new authors are,
    Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare:
    And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one
    But has as little as the very Parson:
    Both say, they preach and write for your instruction:
    But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
    The difference is, that though you like the play,
    The Poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day.
    But with the Parson 'tis a...

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Epilogue To The Wild Gallant, When Revived.

    Of all dramatic writing, comic wit,
    As 'tis the best, so 'tis most hard to hit,
    For it lies all in level to the eye,
    Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.
    Humour is that which every day we meet,
    And therefore known as every public street;
    In which, if e'er the poet go astray,
    You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way.
    But, what's so common, to make pleasant too,
    Is more than any wit can always do.
    For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat;
    To make regalios out of common meat.
    But, in your diet, you grow savages:
    Nothing but human flesh your taste can please;
    And, as their feasts with slaughter'd slaves began,
    So you, at each new play, must have a man.
    Hither you come, as to ...

John Dryden

Epilogue To "All For Love."

    Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail,
    Have one sure refuge left--and that's to rail.
    Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit;
    And this is all their equipage of wit.
    We wonder how the devil this difference grows,
    Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose:
    For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood,
    'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.
    The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat;
    And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot:
    For 'tis observed of every scribbling man,
    He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can;
    Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass,
    If pink and purple best become his face.
    For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays;
    Nor likes your wit, just as you like ...

John Dryden

Epilogue For Mr. Lee Lewes

Hold! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense;
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
('Takes off his mask.')
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth,
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How has thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood,
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu'd!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door Demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities;
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?<...

Oliver Goldsmith

Tunbridge Wells

At five this morn, when Phoebus raised his head
From Thetis' lap, I raised myself from bed,
And mounting steed, I trotted to the waters
The rendesvous of fools, buffoons, and praters,
Cuckolds, whores, citizens, their wives and daughters.

My squeamish stomach I with wine had bribed
To undertake the dose that was prescribed;
But turning head, a sudden curséd view
That innocent provision overthrew,
And without drinking, made me purge and spew.
From coach and six a thing unweildy rolled,
Whose lumber, card more decently would hold.
As wise as calf it looked, as big as bully,
But handled, proves a mere Sir Nicholas Cully;
A bawling fop, a natural Nokes, and yet
He dares to censure as if he had wit.
To make him more ridiculous, in spite
Nature contrived ...

John Wilmot