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:
    Be gull'd no longer, for you'll find it true,
    They have no more religion, faith--than you;
    Interest's the god they worship in their state;
    And you, I take it, have not much of that.
    Well, monarchies may own religion's name,
    But states are atheists in their very frame.
    They share a sin, and such proportions fall,
    That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all.
    How they love England, you shall see this day;
    No map shows Holland truer than our play:
    Their pictures and inscriptions well we know;
    We may be bold one medal sure to show.
    View then their falsehoods, rapine, cruelty;
    And think what once they were, they still would he:
    But hope not either language, plot, or art;
    'Twas writ in haste, but with an English heart:
    And least hope wit; in Dutchmen that would be
    As much improper, as would honesty.

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

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

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

The Character Of A Good Parson.[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

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

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Epilogue, Spoken At Oxford, By Mrs Marshall.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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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

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 ...

John Dryden

Prologue To "King Arthur." Spoken By Mr Betterton.

    Sure there's a dearth of wit in this dull town,
    When silly plays so savourily go down;
    As, when clipt money passes, 'tis a sign
    A nation is not over-stock'd with coin.
    Happy is he who, in his own defence,
    Can write just level to your humble sense;
    Who higher than your pitch can never go;
    And, doubtless, he must creep, who writes below.
    So have I seen, in hall of knight, or lord,
    A weak arm throw on a long shovel-board;
    He barely lays his piece, bar rubs and knocks,
    Secured by weakness not to reach the box.
    A feeble poet will his business do,
    Who, straining all he can, comes up to you:
    For, if you like yourselves, you like him too.
    An ape his own dear image will embrace;
    An ugly beau adores a h...

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

    A plain-built^[1] house, after so long a stay,
    Will send you half unsatisfied away;
    When, fallen from your expected pomp, you find
    A bare convenience only is design'd.
    You, who each day can theatres behold,
    Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,
    Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
    And, for the homely room, disdain the cheer.
    Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
    And a plain suit, since we can make but one,
    Is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known.
    They, who are by your favours wealthy made,
    With mighty sums may carry on the trade:
    We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
    With our small stock to humble roofs retire:
    Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.
 ...

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