Prologue To "Albumazar."[1]

    To say, this comedy pleased long ago,
    Is not enough to make it pass you now.
    Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit;
    When few men censured, and when fewer writ.
    And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this
    As the best model of his masterpiece.
    Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
    That Alchymist by this Astrologer;
    Here he was fashion'd, and we may suppose
    He liked the fashion well, who wore the clothes.
    But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;
    What was another's lead becomes his gold:
    Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
    Yet rules that well which he unjustly gains.
    By this our age such authors does afford,
    As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one word:
    Who, in his anarchy of wit, rob all,
    And what's their plunder, their possession call:
    Who, like bold padders, scorn by night to prey,
    But rob by sunshine, in the face of day:
    Nay, scarce the common ceremony use
    Of, Stand, sir, and deliver up your Muse;
    But knock the Poet down, and, with a grace,
    Mount Pegasus before the owner's face.
    Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad,
    'Tis time for all true men to leave that road.
    Yet it were modest, could it but be said,
    They strip the living, but these rob the dead;
    Dare with the mummies of the Muses play,
    And make love to them the Egyptian way;
    Or, as a rhyming author would have said,
    Join the dead living to the living dead.
    Such men in poetry may claim some part:
    They have the licence, though they want the art;
    And might, where theft was praised, for Laureates stand,--
    Poets, not of the head, but of the hand.
    They make the benefits of others' studying,
    Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,
    Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage;
    'Tis all his own, when once he has spit in the porridge.
    But, gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this;
    You are in fault for what they do amiss:
    For they their thefts still undiscover'd think,
    And durst not steal unless you please to wink.
    Perhaps you may award, by your decree,
    They should refund; but that can never be.
    For should your letters of reprisal seal,
    These men write that which no man else would steal.

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

A Song.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

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

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Epilogue To "All For Love."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To Sir Martin Marr-All.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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Epilogue To The Wild Gallant, When Revived.

    Of all dramatic writing, comic wit,
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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,
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Epilogue To The Second Part Of The Conquest Of Granada.

    They who have best succeeded on the stage,
    Have still conform'd their genius to their age.
    Thus Jonson did mechanic humour show,
    When men were dull, and conversation low.
    Then comedy was faultless, but 'twas coarse:
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    Which must atone for an ill-written play.
    They rose, but at their height could seldom stay.
    Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped;
    And they have kept it since, by being dead.
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    Each line, and every word, throughout a play,
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John Dryden

Prologue To "Aurengzebe."

    Our author, by experience, finds it true,
    'Tis much more hard to please himself than you;
    And out of no feign'd modesty, this day
    Damns his laborious trifle of a play;
    Not that it's worse than what before he writ,
    But he has now another taste of wit;
    And, to confess a truth, though out of time,
    Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme.
    Passion's too fierce to be in fetters bound,
    And nature flies him like enchanted ground:
    What verse can do, he has perform'd in this,
    Which he presumes the most correct of his;
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    Invades his breast at Shakspeare's sacred name:
    Awed when he hears his godlike Romans rage,
    He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;
    An...

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.
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    Like beating nut-trees, makes a larger crop?
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    Will fairly leave you what your Maker meant you.
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    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,
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John Dryden

Prologue To "Limberham."

    True wit has seen its best days long ago;
    It ne'er look'd up, since we were dipp'd in show:
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    And dulness flourish'd at the actors' cost.
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    Satire and humour the same fate have run,
    And comedy is sunk to trick and pun.
    Now our machining lumber will not sell,
    And you no longer care for heaven or hell;
    What stuff can please you next, the Lord can tell.
    Let them, who the rebellion first began
    To wit restore the monarch, if they can;
    Our author dares not be the first bold man.
    He, like the prudent citizen, takes care
    To keep for better marts his staple ware;
    His toys are good enough for Sturbridge fair.
    Tric...

John Dryden