To The Lady Castlemain,[1] Upon Her Encouraging His First Play.

As seamen, shipwreck'd on some happy shore,
Discover wealth in lands unknown before;
And, what their art had labour'd long in vain,
By their misfortunes happily obtain:
So my much-envied Muse, by storms long tost,
Is thrown upon your hospitable coast,
And finds more favour by her ill success,
Than she could hope for by her happiness.
Once Cato's virtue did the gods oppose;
While they the victor, he the vanquish'd chose:
But you have done what Cato could not do,
To choose the vanquish'd, and restore him too.
Let others triumph still, and gain their cause
By their deserts, or by the world's applause;
Let merit crowns, and justice laurels give,
But let me happy by your pity live.
True poets empty fame and praise despise;
Fame is the trumpet, but your smile the prize.
You sit above, and see vain men below
Contend for what you only can bestow:
But those great actions others do by chance,
Are, like your beauty, your inheritance;
So great a soul, such sweetness join'd in one,
Could only spring from noble Grandison.^[2]
You, like the stars, not by reflection bright,
Are born to your own heaven, and your own light;
Like them are good, but from a nobler cause,
From your own knowledge, not from nature's laws.
Your power you never use, but for defence,
To guard your own, or other's innocence:
Your foes are such as they, not you, have made,
And virtue may repel, though not invade.
Such courage did the ancient heroes show,
Who, when they might prevent, would wait the blow:
With such assurance as they meant to say,
We will o'ercome, but scorn the safest way.
What further fear of danger can there be?
Beauty, which captives all things, sets me free.
Posterity will judge by my success.
I had the Grecian poet's happiness,
Who, waving plots, found out a better way;
Some god descended, and preserved the play.
When first the triumphs of your sex were sung
By those old poets, beauty was but young,
And few admired the native red and white,
Till poets dress'd them up to charm the sight;
So beauty took on trust, and did engage
For sums of praises till she came to age.
But this long-growing debt to poetry
You justly, madam, have discharged to me,
When your applause and favour did infuse
New life to my condemn'd and dying Muse.

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 Tyrannic Love.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "Albumazar."[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

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

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "Aurengzebe."

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

English

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

    As there is music uninform'd by art
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Epistle To Elizabeth Countesse Of Rutland

Madame,

VVhil'st that, for which all vertue now is sold,
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To Mr Lee, On His "Alexander."

    The blast of common censure could I fear,
    Before your play my name should not appear;
    For 'twill be thought, and with some colour too,
    I pay the bribe I first received from you;
    That mutual vouchers for our fame we stand,
    And play the game into each other's hand;
    And as cheap pen'orths to ourselves afford,
    As Bessus^[1] and the brothers of the sword.
    Such libels private men may well endure,
    When states and kings themselves are not secure:
    For ill men, conscious of their inward guilt,
    Think the best actions on by-ends are built.
    And yet my silence had not 'scaped their spite;
    Then, envy had not suffer'd me to write;
    For, since I could not ignorance pretend,
    Such merit I must envy or commend.

John Dryden

To Mr Granville,[1] On His Excellent Tragedy Called "Heroic Love."

    Auspicious poet, wert thou not my friend,
    How could I envy, what I must commend!
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    Though yearly beaten, yearly yet they rise:
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    Catch at a peace, and wisely turn devout.
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To My Friend Mr Motteux,[1] On His Tragedy Called "Beauty In Distress."

    'Tis hard, my friend, to write in such an age,
    As damns, not only poets, but the stage.
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    All would submit; for all but fools will mend.
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    And turn distorted words to blasphemy,
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    Their glosses teach an age, too apt to learn.
    What I have loosely, or profanely, writ,
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John Dryden

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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    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;
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John Dryden