Prologue To "Circe," A Tragic Opera; By Dr Davenant,[1] 1675.

    Were you but half so wise as you're severe,
    Our youthful poet should not need to fear:
    To his green years your censures you would suit,
    Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit.
    The sex, the best does pleasure understand,
    Will always choose to err on the other hand.
    They check not him that's awkward in delight,
    But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him right.
    Thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd upon his prey,
    The youth may prove a man another day.
    Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight,
    Did no Volpone, nor Arbaces write;
    But hopp'd about, and short excursions made
    From bough to bough, as if they were afraid,
    And each was guilty of some Slighted Maid.
    Shakspeare's own muse her Pericles first bore;
    The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor:
    'Tis miracle to see a first good play;
    All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.
    A slender poet must have time to grow,
    And spread and burnish, as his brothers do.
    Who still looks lean, sure with some pox is cursed:
    But no man can be Falstaff-fat at first.
    Then damn not, but indulge his rude essays;
    Encourage him, and bloat him up with praise,
    That he may get more bulk before he dies:
    He's not yet fed enough for sacrifice.
    Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge,
    He may grow up to write, and you to judge.

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

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

A Song.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Song. Farewell, Fair Armida.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "Troilus And Cressida."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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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;
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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;
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John Dryden

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

To My Dear Friend Mr Congreve, On His Comedy Called "The Double-Dealer."

    Well, then, the promised hour is come at last,
    The present age of wit obscures the past:
    Strong were our sires, and as they fought they writ,
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    Theirs was the giant race, before the flood;
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    And boisterous English wit with art endued.
    Our age was cultivated thus at length;
    But what we gain'd in skill we lost in strength.
    Our builders were with want of genius cursed;
    The second temple was not like the first:
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    Our beauties equal, but exce...

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.
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    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:
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    He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;
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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,
    And roar the loudest, though they never pay.
    The fops are proud of scandal, for they cry,
    At every lewd, low character,--That's I.
    He who writes letters to himself would swear,
    The world forgot him, if he was not there.
    What should a poet do? 'Tis hard for one
    To pleasure all the fools that would be shown:
    And yet not two in ten will pass the town.
    Most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;
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John Dryden