Satire On The Dutch.[1]

Written In The Year 1662.

    As needy gallants, in the scrivener's hands,
    Court the rich knaves that gripe their mortgaged lands;
    The first fat buck of all the season's sent,
    And keeper takes no fee in compliment;
    The dotage of some Englishmen is such,
    To fawn on those who ruin them--the Dutch.
    They shall have all, rather than make a war
    With those, who of the same religion are.
    The Straits, the Guinea-trade, the herrings too;
    Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you.
    Some are resolved not to find out the cheat,
    But, cuckold-like, love them that do the feat.
    What injuries soe'er upon us fall,
    Yet still the same religion answers all.
    Religion wheedled us to civil war,
    Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now would spare.
    Be gull'd no longer; for you'll find it true,
    They have no more religion, faith! than you.
    Interest's the god they worship in their state,
    And we, I take it, have not much of that
    Well monarchies may own religion's name,
    But states are atheists in their very frame.
    They share a sin; and such proportions fall,
    That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all.
    Think on their rapine, falsehood, cruelty,
    And that what once they were, they still would be.
    To one well-born the affront is worse and more,
    When he's abused and baffled by a boor.
    With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do;
    They've both ill nature and ill manners too.
    Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation;
    For they were bred ere manners were in fashion:
    And their new commonwealth has set them free
    Only from honour and civility.
    Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,
    Than did their lubber state mankind bestride.
    Their sway became them with as ill a mien,
    As their own paunches swell above their chin.
    Yet is their empire no true growth but humour,
    And only two kings'^[2] touch can cure the tumour.
    As Cato fruits of Afric did display,
    Let us before our eyes their Indies lay:
    All loyal English will like him conclude;
    Let Cæsar live, and Carthage be subdued.

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 Loyal General;" By Mr Tate, 1680.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

A Song.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

To The Lord Chancellor Hyde.[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "Oedipus."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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Prologue To Amboyna.[1]

    As needy gallants in the scrivener's hands,
    Court the rich knave that gripes their mortgaged lands,
    The first fat buck of all the season's sent,
    And keeper takes no fee in compliment:
    The dotage of some Englishmen is such,
    To fawn on those who ruin them--the Dutch.
    They shall have all, rather than make a war
    With those who of the same religion are.
    The Straits, the Guinea trade, the herrings too,
    Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you.
    Some are resolved not to find out the cheat,
    But, cuckold-like, love him who does the feat:
    What injuries soe'er upon us fall,
    Yet, still the same religion answers all:
    Religion wheedled you to civil war,
    Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now would spare:
 ...

John Dryden

The Dutch In The Medway

If wars were won by feasting,
0r victory by song,
Or safety found in sleeping sound,
How England would be strong!
But honour and dominion
Are not maintained so.
They're only got by sword and shot,
And this the Dutchmen know!

The moneys that should feed us
You spend on your delight,
How can you then have sailor-men
To aid you in your fight?
Our fish and cheese are rotten,
Which makes the scurvy grow,
We cannot serve you if we starve,
And this the Dutchmen now!

Our ships in every harbour
Be neither whole nor sound,
And, when we seek to mend a leak,
No oakum can be found;
Or, if it is, the caulkers,
And carpenters also,
For lack of pay have gone away,
And this the Dutchmen know!

Mere powder, guns, and bull...

Rudyard

Epilogue To Amboyna.

    A Poet once the Spartans led to fight,
    And made them conquer in the muse's right;
    So would our poet lead you on this day,
    Showing your tortured fathers in his play.
    To one well born the affront is worse, and more,
    When he's abused and baffled by a boor:
    With an ill grace the Dutch their mischiefs do,
    They've both ill nature and ill manners too.
    Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation,
    For they were bred ere manners were in fashion,
    And their new commonwealth has set them free,
    Only from honour and civility.
    Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,
    Than did their lubber state mankind bestride;
    Their sway became them with as ill a mien,
    As their own paunches swell above their chin:
    Yet is ...

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

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

    The Grecian wits, who Satire first began,
    Were pleasant Pasquins on the life of man;
    At mighty villains, who the state oppress'd,
    They durst not rail, perhaps; they lash'd, at least,
    And turn'd them out of office with a jest.
    No fool could peep abroad, but ready stand
    The drolls to clap a bauble in his hand.
    Wise legislators never yet could draw
    A fop within the reach of common law;
    For posture, dress, grimace, and affectation,
    Though foes to sense, are harmless to the nation.
    Our last redress is dint of verse to try,
    And Satire is our Court of Chancery.
    This way took Horace to reform an age,
    Not bad enough to need an author's rage:
    But yours,^[2] who lived in more degenerate times,
    ...

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