To Mr Southerne, On His Comedy Called "The Wives' Excuse."

    Sure there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain
    To write, while these malignant planets reign.
    Some very foolish influence rules the pit,
    Not always kind to sense, or just to wit:
    And whilst it lasts, let buffoonry succeed
    To make us laugh; for never was more need.
    Farce, in itself, is of a nasty scent;
    But the gain smells not of the excrement.
    The Spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too,
    With all her charms, bore but a single show:
    But let a monster Muscovite appear,
    He draws a crowded audience round the year.
    May be thou hast not pleased the box and pit;
    Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit:
    So Terence plotted, but so Terence writ.
    Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language clean
    Even lewdness is made moral in thy scene.
    The hearers may for want of Nokes repine;
    But rest secure, the readers will be thine.
    Nor was thy labour'd drama damn'd or hiss'd,
    But with a kind civility dismiss'd;
    With such good manners, as the Wife^[1] did use,
    Who, not accepting, did but just refuse.
    There was a glance at parting; such a look,
    As bids thee not give o'er, for one rebuke.
    But if thou wouldst be seen, as well as read,
    Copy one living author, and one dead:
    The standard of thy style let Etherege be;
    For wit, the immortal spring of Wycherly:
    Learn, after both, to draw some just design,
    And the next age will learn to copy thine.

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 Indian Queen.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Song In The "Maiden Queen."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

A Song.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

To My Friend Mr J. Northleigh, Author Of "The Parallel," On His "Triumph Of The British Monarchy."

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;
    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.
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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

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:
    What verse can do, he has perform'd in this,
    Which he presumes the most correct of his;
    But spite of all his pride, a secret shame
    Invades his breast at Shakspeare's sacred name:
    Awed when he hears his godlike Romans rage,
    He, in a just despair, would quit the stage;
    An...

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,
    Conquering with force of arms, and dint of wit:
    Theirs was the giant race, before the flood;
    And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire stood.
    Like Janus he the stubborn soil manured,
    With rules of husbandry the rankness cured;
    Tamed us to manners, when the stage was rude;
    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:
    Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length;
    Our beauties equal, but exce...

John Dryden

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.
    Tric...

John Dryden

Epilogue To "The Husband His Own Cuckold." By Mr John Dryden, Jun., 1696.[1]

    Like some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
    So trembles a young Poet at a full pit.
    Unused to crowds, the parson quakes for fear,
    And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
    Wanting three talents needful for the place--
    Some beard, some learning, and some little grace.
    Nor is the puny Poet void of care;
    For authors, such as our new authors are,
    Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare:
    And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one
    But has as little as the very Parson:
    Both say, they preach and write for your instruction:
    But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
    The difference is, that though you like the play,
    The Poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day.
    But with the Parson 'tis a...

John Dryden