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:
    When sense in doggerel rhymes and clouds was lost,
    And dulness flourish'd at the actors' cost.
    Nor stopp'd it here; when tragedy was done,
    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.
    Tricks were the fashion; if it now be spent,
    'Tis time enough at Easter to invent;
    No man will make up a new suit for Lent.
    If now and then he takes a small pretence,
    To forage for a little wit and sense,
    Pray pardon him, he meant you no offence.
    Next summer, Nostradamus tells, they say,
    That all the critics shall be shipp'd away,
    And not enow be left to damn a play.
    To every sail beside, good heaven, be kind:
    But drive away that swarm with such a wind,
    That not one locust may be left behind!

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

To Sir Godfrey Kneller, Principal Painter To His Majesty.[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

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

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

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

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "Albion And Albanius."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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Epilogue To The Wild Gallant, When Revived.

    Of all dramatic writing, comic wit,
    As 'tis the best, so 'tis most hard to hit,
    For it lies all in level to the eye,
    Where all may judge, and each defect may spy.
    Humour is that which every day we meet,
    And therefore known as every public street;
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    Is more than any wit can always do.
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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:
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    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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John Dryden

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;
    More goes to make a fop, than f...

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

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 "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