Prologue[1] To His Royal Highness,

UPON HIS FIRST APPEARANCE AT THE DUKE'S THEATRE, AFTER HIS RETURN FROM SCOTLAND, 1682.


    In those cold regions which no summers cheer,
    Where brooding darkness covers half the year,
    To hollow caves the shivering natives go;
    Bears range abroad, and hunt in tracks of snow:
    But when the tedious twilight wears away,
    And stars grow paler at the approach of day,
    The longing crowds to frozen mountains run;
    Happy who first can see the glimmering sun:
    The surly savage offspring disappear,
    And curse the bright successor of the year.
    Yet, though rough bears in covert seek defence,
    White foxes stay, with seeming innocence:
    That crafty kind with daylight can dispense.
    Still we are throng'd so full with Reynard's race,
    That loyal subjects scarce can find a place:
    Thus modest truth is cast behind the crowd:
    Truth speaks too low: hypocrisy too loud.
    Let them be first to flatter in success;
    Duty can stay, but guilt has need to press.
    Once, when true zeal the sons of God did call,
    To make their solemn show at heaven's Whitehall,
    The fawning Devil appear'd among the rest,
    And made as good a courtier as the best.
    The friends of Job, who rail'd at him before,
    Came, cap in hand, when he had three times more.
    Yet late repentance may, perhaps, be true;
    Kings can forgive, if rebels can but sue:
    A tyrant's power in rigour is express'd;
    The father yearns in the true prince's breast.
    We grant, an o'ergrown Whig no grace can mend;
    But most are babes, that know not they offend.
    The crowd, to restless motion still inclined,
    Are clouds, that tack according to the wind.
    Driven by their chiefs, they storms of hailstones pour;
    Then mourn, and soften to a silent shower.
    O welcome to this much-offending land,
    The prince that brings forgiveness in his hand!
    Thus angels on glad messages appear:
    Their first salute commands us not to fear.
    Thus Heaven, that could constrain us to obey,
    (With reverence if we might presume to say)
    Seems to relax the rights of sovereign sway:
    Permits to man the choice of good and ill,
    And makes us happy by our own free will.

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

Epitaph On Mrs Margaret Paston, Of Burningham In Norfolk.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "Albumazar."[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

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

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

To Mr Granville,[1] On His Excellent Tragedy Called "Heroic Love."

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.

To His Sacred Majesty.

A Panegyric On His Coronation.

    In that wild deluge where the world was drown'd,
    When life and sin one common tomb had found,
    The first small prospect of a rising hill
    With various notes of joy the ark did fill:
    Yet when that flood in its own depths was drown'd,
    It left behind it false and slippery ground;
    And the more solemn pomp was still deferr'd,
    Till new-born nature in fresh looks appear'd.
    Thus, Royal Sir, to see you landed here,
    Was cause enough of triumph for a year:
    Nor would your care those glorious joys repeat,
    Till they at once might be secure and great:
    Till your kind beams, by their continued stay,
    Had warm'd the ground, and call'd the damps away,
    Such vapours, while your powerful influe...

John Dryden

Prologue To "The Loyal Brother; Or, The Persian Prince;"[1] By Mr Southern, 1682.

    POETS, like lawful monarchs, ruled the stage,
    Till critics, like damn'd Whigs, debauch'd our age.
    Mark how they jump: critics would regulate
    Our theatres, and Whigs reform our state:
    Both pretend love, and both (plague rot them!) hate.
    The critic humbly seems advice to bring;
    The fawning Whig petitions to the king:
    But one's advice into a satire slides;
    The other's petition a remonstrance hides.
    These will no taxes give, and those no pence;
    Critics would starve the poet, Whigs the prince.
    The critic all our troops of friends discards;
    Just so the Whig would fain pull down the guards.
    Guards are illegal, that drive foes away,
    As watchful shepherds, that fright beasts of prey.
    Kings, who disband such nee...

John Dryden

To The Lord Chancellor Hyde.[1]

Presented On New Year's Day, 1662.

    My Lord,
    While flattering crowds officiously appear
    To give themselves, not you, a happy year;
    And by the greatness of their presents prove
    How much they hope, but not how well they love;
    The Muses, who your early courtship boast,
    Though now your flames are with their beauty lost,
    Yet watch their time, that, if you have forgot
    They were your mistresses, the world may not:
    Decay'd by time and wars, they only prove
    Their former beauty by your former love;
    And now present, as ancient ladies do,
    That, courted long, at length are forced to woo.
    For still they look on you with such kind eyes,
    As those that see the church's sovereign rise;
    From their own order cho...

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

Prologue To "The Earl Of Essex; Or, The Unhappy Favourite;" By Mr J. Banks, 1682.

SPOKEN TO THE KING AND QUEEN AT THEIR COMING TO THE HOUSE.


    When first the ark was landed on the shore,
    And Heaven had vow'd to curse the ground no more;
    When tops of hills the longing patriarch saw,
    And the new scene of earth began to draw;
    The dove was sent to view the waves' decrease,
    And first brought back to man the pledge of peace.
    'Tis needless to apply, when those appear,
    Who bring the olive, and who plant it here.
    We have before our eyes the royal dove,
    Still innocent, as harbinger of love:
    The ark is open'd to dismiss the train,
    And people with a better race the plain.
    Tell me, ye Powers! why should vain man pursue,
    With endless toil, each object that is new,
    And for the seeming substa...

John Dryden

Prologue[1] To The University Of Oxford, 1681.

    The famed Italian Muse, whose rhymes advance
    Orlando and the Paladins of France,
    Records, that, when our wit and sense is flown,
    'Tis lodged within the circle of the moon,
    In earthen jars, which one, who thither soar'd,
    Set to his nose, snuff'd up, and was restored.
    Whate'er the story be, the moral's true;
    The wit we lost in town, we find in you.
    Our poets their fled parts may draw from hence,
    And fill their windy heads with sober sense.
    When London votes with Southwark's disagree,
    Here may they find their long-lost loyalty.
    Here busy senates, to the old cause inclined,
    May snuff the votes their fellows left behind:
    Your country neighbours, when their grain grows dear,
    May come, and find their last pro...

John Dryden