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 needless aids as these,
    Are safe--as long as e'er their subjects please:
    And that would be till next Queen Bess's night: ^[2]
    Which thus grave penny chroniclers indite.
    Sir Edmondbury first, in woful wise,
    Leads up the show, and milks their maudlin eyes.
    There's not a butcher's wife but dribs her part,
    And pities the poor pageant from her heart;
    Who, to provoke revenge, rides round the fire,
    And, with a civil congé, does retire:
    But guiltless blood to ground must never fall;
    There's Antichrist behind, to pay for all.
    The punk of Babylon in pomp appears,
    A lewd old gentleman of seventy years:
    Whose age in vain our mercy would implore;
    For few take pity on an old cast whore.
    The Devil, who brought him to the shame, takes part;
    Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart;
    Like thief and parson in a Tyburn-cart.
    The word is given, and with a loud huzza
    The mitred puppet from his chair they draw:
    On the slain corpse contending nations fall:
    Alas! what's one poor Pope among them all!
    He burns; now all true hearts your triumphs ring:
    And, next, for fashion, cry, God save the king!
    A needful cry in midst of such alarms,
    When forty thousand men are up in arms.
    But after he's once saved, to make amends,
    In each succeeding health they damn his friends:
    So God begins, but still the Devil ends.
    What if some one, inspired with zeal, should call,
    Come, let's go cry, God save him at Whitehall?
    His best friends would not like this over-care,
    Or think him ere the safer for this prayer.
    Five praying saints are by an act allow'd;^[3]
    But not the whole church-militant in crowd.
    Yet, should Heaven all the true petitions drain
    Of Presbyterians, who would kings maintain,
    Of forty thousand, five would scarce remain.

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

Epilogue To "Oedipus."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "Albumazar."[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

The Character Of A Good Parson.[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Epitaph On Sir Palmes Fairbone's Tomb In Westminster Abbey.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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Prologue[1] To His Royal Highness,

UPON HIS FIRST APPEARANCE AT THE DUKE'S THEATRE, AFTER HIS RETURN FROM SCOTLAND, 1682.


    In those cold regions which no summers cheer,
    Where brooding darkness covers half the year,
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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;
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Catch'd like the plague, or love, the Lord knows how,
But that the cure is starving, all allow
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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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    That strike at sense, as rebels do at kings.
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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!
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    He who writes letters to himself would swear,
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John Dryden

Prologue To "Albion And Albanius."

    Full twenty years and more, our labouring stage
    Has lost on this incorrigible age:
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    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.
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To My Honoured Kinsman, John Dryden,[1] Of Chesterton, In The County Of Huntingdon, Esq.

    How bless'd is he who leads a country life,
    Unvex'd with anxious cares, and void of strife!
    Who studying peace, and shunning civil rage,
    Enjoy'd his youth, and now enjoys his age:
    All who deserve his love, he makes his own;
    And, to be loved himself, needs only to be known.

        Just, good, and wise, contending neighbours come,
    From your award to wait their final doom;
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    Without their cost, you terminate the cause;
    And save the expense of long litigious laws:
    Where suits are traversed; and so little won,
    That he who conquers, is but last undone:
    Such are not your decrees; but so design'd,
    The sanction leaves a lasting peace behind;
    Like your own soul, sere...

John Dryden