Upon Young Mr Rogers Of Gloucestershire.

    Of gentle blood, his parents' only treasure,
    Their lasting sorrow, and their vanish'd pleasure,
    Adorn'd with features, virtues, wit, and grace,
    A large provision for so short a race;
    More moderate gifts might have prolong'd his date,
    Too early fitted for a better state;
    But, knowing heaven his home, to shun delay,
    He leap'd o'er age, and took the shortest way.

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

Mac Flecknoe.[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "The Pilgrim." By Beaumont And Fletcher.

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

The Fair Stranger.[1]

John Dryden, Simple Poetry

Prologue To "King Arthur." Spoken By Mr Betterton.

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.

On The Death Of A Very Young Gentleman.

He who could view the book of destiny,
And read whatever there was writ of thee,
O charming youth, in the first opening page,
So many graces in so green an age,
Such wit, such modesty, such strength of mind,
A soul at once so manly and so kind;
Would wonder, when he turn'd the volume o'er,
And after some few leaves should find no more,
Nought but a blank remain, a dead void space,
A step of life that promised such a race.
We must not, dare not think, that Heaven began
A child, and could not finish him a man;
Reflecting what a mighty store was laid
Of rich materials, and a model made:
The cost already furnish'd; so bestow'd,
As more was never to one soul allow'd:
Yet after this profusion spent in vain,
Nothing but mouldering ashes to remain,
I guess n...

John Dryden

To The Memory Of Mr Oldham.[1]

    Farewell, too little, and too lately known,
    Whom I began to think, and call my own:
    For sure our souls were near allied, and thine
    Cast in the same poetic mould with mine!
    One common note on either lyre did strike,
    And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike.
    To the same goal did both our studies drive;
    The last set out, the soonest did arrive.
    Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place,
    Whilst his young friend performed, and won the race.
    O early ripe! to thy abundant store
    What could advancing age have added more?
    It might (what nature never gives the young)
    Have taught the smoothness of thy native tongue.
    But satire needs not those, and wit will shine
    Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line.
  ...

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;
    And, foes before, return in friendship home.
    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

On The Death Of Lord Hastings.[1]

    Must noble Hastings immaturely die,
    The honour of his ancient family;
    Beauty and learning thus together meet,
    To bring a winding for a wedding-sheet?
    Must Virtue prove Death's harbinger? must she,
    With him expiring, feel mortality?
    Is death, Sin's wages, Grace's now? shall Art
    Make us more learned, only to depart?
    If merit be disease; if virtue death;
    To be good, not to be; who'd then bequeath
    Himself to discipline? who'd not esteem
    Labour a crime? study, self-murder deem?
    Our noble youth now have pretence to be
    Dunces securely, ignorant healthfully.
    Rare linguist, whose worth speaks itself, whose praise,
    Though not his own, all tongues besides do raise:
    Than whom great Alexander may seem less...

John Dryden

To Her Grace The Duchess Of Ormond,[1]

WITH THE FOLLOWING POEM OF PALAMON AND ARCITE.


    MADAM,

    The bard who first adorn'd our native tongue,
    Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song:
    Which Homer might without a blush rehearse,
    And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse:
    He match'd their beauties, where they most excel;
    Of love sung better, and of arms as well.

        Vouchsafe, illustrious Ormond! to behold
    What power the charms of beauty had of old;
    Nor wonder if such deeds of arms were done,
    Inspired by two fair eyes that sparkled like your own.

        If Chaucer by the best idea wrought,
    And poets can divine each other's thought,
    The fairest nymph before his eyes he set;
    And then the fairest was Plantagenet;
 ...

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