Prologue To Sir Martin Marr-All.

    Fools, which each man meets in his dish each day,
    Are yet the great regalios of a play;
    In which to poets you but just appear,
    To prize that highest, which cost them so dear:
    Fops in the town more easily will pass;
    One story makes a statutable ass:
    But such in plays must be much thicker sown,
    Like yolks of eggs, a dozen beat to one.
    Observing poets all their walks invade,
    As men watch woodcocks gliding through a glade:
    And when they have enough for comedy,
    They stow their several bodies in a pie:
    The poet's but the cook to fashion it,
    For, gallants, you yourselves have found the wit.
    To bid you welcome, would your bounty wrong;
    None welcome those who bring their cheer along.

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 "Albumazar."[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

To Henry Higden,[1] Esq., On His Translation Of The Tenth Satire Of Juvenal.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

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

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

To His Friend The Author, John Hoddesdon, On His Divine Epigrams.

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.

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;
    In which, if e'er the poet go astray,
    You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way.
    But, what's so common, to make pleasant too,
    Is more than any wit can always do.
    For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat;
    To make regalios out of common meat.
    But, in your diet, you grow savages:
    Nothing but human flesh your taste can please;
    And, as their feasts with slaughter'd slaves began,
    So you, at each new play, must have a man.
    Hither you come, as to ...

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 Rival Ladies.

    'Tis much desired, you judges of the town
    Would pass a vote to put all prologues down:
    For who can show me, since they first were writ,
    They e'er converted one hard-hearted wit?
    Yet the world's mended well; in former days
    Good prologues were as scarce as now good plays.
    For the reforming poets of our age,
    In this first charge, spend their poetic rage:
    Expect no more when once the prologue's done:
    The wit is ended ere the play's begun.
    You now have habits, dances, scenes, and rhymes;
    High language often; ay, and sense, sometimes.
    As for a clear contrivance, doubt it now;
    They blow out candles to give light to the plot.
    And for surprise, two bloody-minded men
    Fight till they die, then rise and dance agai...

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

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