Epilogue To "The Pilgrim."

    Perhaps the parson^[1] stretch'd a point too far,
    When with our Theatres he waged a war.
    He tells you, that this very moral age
    Received the first infection from the stage.
    But sure, a banish'd court, with lewdness fraught,
    The seeds of open vice, returning, brought.
    Thus lodged (as vice by great example thrives)
    It first debauch'd the daughters and the wives.
    London, a fruitful soil, yet never bore
    So plentiful a crop of horns before.
    The poets, who must live by courts, or starve,
    Were proud so good a government to serve:
    And, mixing with buffoons and pimps profane,
    Tainted the stage, for some small snip of gain.
    For they, like harlots under bawds profess'd,
    Took all the ungodly pains, and got the least.
    Thus did the thriving malady prevail:
    The court, its head, the poets but the tail.
    The sin was of our native growth, 'tis true;
    The scandal of the sin was wholly new.
    Misses they were, but modestly conceal'd;
    Whitehall the naked Venus first reveal'd,
    Who, standing as at Cyprus, in her shrine,
    The strumpet was adored with rites divine.
    Ere this, if saints had any secret motion,
    'Twas chamber-practice all, and close devotion.
    I pass the peccadilloes of their time;
    Nothing but open lewdness was a crime.
    A monarch's blood was venial to the nation,
    Compared with one foul act of fornication.
    Now, they would silence us, and shut the door,
    That let in all the barefaced vice before.
    As for reforming us, which some pretend,
    That work in England is without an end:
    Well may we change, but we shall never mend.
    Yet, if you can but bear the present Stage,
    We hope much better of the coming age.
    What would you say, if we should first begin
    To stop the trade of love behind the scene,
    Where actresses make bold with married men?
    For while abroad so prodigal the dolt is,
    Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is.
    In short, we'll grow as moral as we can,
    Save here and there a woman or a man:
    But neither you, nor we, with all our pains,
    Can make clean work; there will be some remains,
    While you have still your Oates, and we our Haines.

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 My Honoured Friend Sir Robert Howard,[1] On His Excellent Poems.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

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

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Satire On The Dutch.[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue. Spoken At The Opening Of The New House, March 26, 1674.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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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

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

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...

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

Prologue To "The Loyal General;" By Mr Tate, 1680.

    If yet there be a few that take delight
    In that which reasonable men should write;
    To them alone we dedicate this night.
    The rest may satisfy their curious itch
    With city-gazettes, or some factious speech,
    Or whate'er libel, for the public good,
    Stirs up the shrove-tide crew to fire and blood.
    Remove your benches, you apostate pit,
    And take, above, twelve pennyworth of wit;
    Go back to your dear dancing on the rope,
    Or see, what's worse, the Devil and the Pope.
    The plays that take on our corrupted stage,
    Methinks, resemble the distracted age;
    Noise, madness, all unreasonable things,
    That strike at sense, as rebels do at kings.
    The style of forty-one our poets write,
    And you are grown to judge l...

John Dryden

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