Prologue To "Cæsar Borgia;"[1] By Nathan Lee, 1680.

    The unhappy man, who once has trail'd a pen,
    Lives not to please himself, but other men;
    Is always drudging, wastes his life and blood,
    Yet only eats and drinks what you think good.
    What praise soe'er the poetry deserve,
    Yet every fool can bid the poet starve.
    That fumbling lecher to revenge is bent,
    Because he thinks himself or whore is meant:
    Name but a cuckold, all the city swarms;
    From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms:
    Were there no fear of Antichrist, or France,
    In the bless'd time poor poets live by chance.
    Either you come not here, or, as you grace
    Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,
    Careless and qualmish, with a yawning face:
    You sleep o'er wit, and, by my troth, you may;
    Most of your talents lie another way.
    You love to hear of some prodigious tale,
    The bell that toll'd alone, or Irish whale.
    News is your food, and you enough provide,
    Both for yourselves, and all the world beside;
    One theatre there is of vast resort,
    Which whilome of Requests was called the Court;
    But now the great Exchange of News 'tis hight,
    And full of hum and buzz from noon till night.
    Up stairs and down you run, as for a race,
    And each man wears three nations in his face.
    So big you look, though claret you retrench,
    That, arm'd with bottled ale, you huff the French.
    But all your entertainment still is fed
    By villains in your own dull island bred.
    Would you return to us, we dare engage
    To show you better rogues upon the stage.
    You know no poison but plain ratsbane here;
    Death's more refined, and better bred elsewhere.
    They have a civil way in Italy,
    By smelling a perfume to make you die:
    A trick would make you lay your snuff-box by.
    Murder's a trade, so known and practised there,
    That 'tis infallible as is the Chair.
    But mark their feast, you shall behold such pranks;
    The Pope says grace, but 'tis the Devil gives thanks.

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 For St Cecilia's Day,[1] 1687.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Song Of A Scholar And His Mistress,

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Song Of The Sea-Fight, In Amboyna.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

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

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.

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 "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 al...

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

The Satires Of Dr John Donne, Dean Of St Paul's,[171] Versified.

'Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes Quaerere, num illius, num rerum dura negarit Versiculos natura magis factos, et euntes Mollius?'

HOR.

Satire II.

Yes; thank my stars! as early as I knew
This town, I had the sense to hate it too:
Yet here, as ev'n in Hell, there must be still
One giant-vice, so excellently ill,
That all beside, one pities, not abhors;
As who knows Sappho, smiles at other whores.

I grant that poetry's a crying sin;
It brought (no doubt) the Excise and Army in:
Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how,
But that the cure is starving, all allow
Yet like the papist's is the poet's state,
Poor and disarm'd, and hardly worth your hate!

Here a lean bard, whose wit could never give
Himself a dinner,...

Alexander Pope

Prologue To "Don Sebastian." Spoken By A Woman.

    The judge removed, though he's no more my lord,
    May plead at bar, or at the council board:
    So may cast poets write; there's no pretension
    To argue loss of wit from loss of pension.
    Your looks are cheerful; and in all this place
    I see not one that wears a damning face.
    The British nation is too brave to show
    Ignoble vengeance on a vanquish'd foe.
    At last be civil to the wretch imploring;
    And lay your paws upon him without roaring.
    Suppose our poet was your foe before,
    Yet now, the business of the field is o'er;
    'Tis time to let your civil wars alone,
    When troops are into winter quarters gone.
    Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian;
    And you well know, a play's of no religion.
    Take good advice,...

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