John Dryden

    SPOKEN BY MONTEZUMA.

    You see what shifts we are enforced to try,
    To help out wit with some variety;
    Shows may be found that never yet were seen,
    'Tis hard to find such wit as ne'er has been:
    You have seen all that this old world can do,
    We therefore try the fortune of the new,
    And hope it is below your aim to hit
    At untaught nature with your practised wit:
    Our naked Indians, then, when wits appear,
    Would as soon choose to have the Spaniards here.
    'Tis true, you have marks enough, the plot, the show,
    The poet's scenes, nay, more, the painter's too;
    If all this fail, considering the cost,
    'Tis a true voyage to the Indies lost:
    But if you smile on all, then these designs,
    Like the imperfect...

    They who have best succeeded on the stage,
    Have still conform'd their genius to their age.
    Thus Jonson did mechanic humour show,
    When men were dull, and conversation low.
    Then comedy was faultless, but 'twas coarse:
    Cobb's tankard was a jest, and Otter's horse.
    And, as their comedy, their love was mean;
    Except, by chance, in some one labour'd scene,
    Which must atone for an ill-written play.
    They rose, but at their height could seldom stay.
    Fame then was cheap, and the first comer sped;
    And they have kept it since, by being dead.
    But, were they now to write, when critics weigh
    Each line, and every word, throughout a play,
    None of them, no not Jonson in his height,
    Could pass, without allowing grains for...

    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.
    Hither you come, as to ...

    As Jupiter I made my court in vain;
    I'll now assume my native shape again.
    I'm weary to be so unkindly used,
    And would not be a god to be refused.
    State grows uneasy when it hinders love;
    A glorious burden, which the wise remove.
    Now, as a nymph I need not sue, nor try
    The force of any lightning but the eye.
    Beauty and youth more than a god command;
    No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand.
    'Tis here that sovereign power admits dispute;
    Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.
    Our sullen Catos, whatsoe'er they say,
    Even while they frown, and dictate laws, obey.
    You, mighty sir,[2] our bonds more easy make,
    And gracefully, what all must suffer, take:
    Above those forms the grave af...

    Oft has our poet wish'd, this happy seat
    Might prove his fading Muse's last retreat:
    I wonder'd at his wish, but now I find
    He sought for quiet, and content of mind;
    Which noiseful towns, and courts can never know,
    And only in the shades like laurels grow.
    Youth, ere it sees the world, here studies rest,
    And age returning thence concludes it best.
    What wonder if we court that happiness
    Yearly to share, which hourly you possess;
    Teaching even you, while the vex'd world we show,
    Your peace to value more, and better know?
    'Tis all we can return for favours past,
    Whose holy memory shall ever last;
    For patronage from him whose care presides
    O'er every noble art, and every science guides:
    Bathurst,<...

(Prologue To The University Of Oxford, Spoken By Mr Hart, At The Acting Of "The Silent Woman.")


    No poor Dutch peasant, wing'd with all his fear,
    Flies with more haste, when the French arms draw near,
    Than we with our poetic train come down,
    For refuge hither, from the infected town:
    Heaven, for our sins, this summer has thought fit
    To visit us with all the plagues of wit.
    A French troop first swept all things in its way;
    But those hot Monsieurs were too quick to stay:
    Yet, to our cost, in that short time, we find
    They left their itch of novelty behind.
    The Italian Merry-Andrews took their place,
    And quite debauch'd the stage with lewd grimace:
    Instead of wit and humours, your delight
    Was there to see tw...

So fair, so young, so innocent, so sweet,
So ripe a judgment, and so rare a wit,
Require at least an age in one to meet.
In her they met; but long they could not stay,
'Twas gold too fine to mix without allay.
Heaven's image was in her so well express'd,
Her very sight upbraided all the rest;
Too justly ravish'd from an age like this,
Now she is gone, the world is of a piece.

Sacred To The Immortal Memory Of Sir Palmes Fairbone, Knight, Governor Of Tangier; In Execution Of Which Command, He Was Mortally Wounded By A Shot From The Moors, Then Besieging The Town, In The Forty-Sixth Year Of His Age. October 24, 1680.


Ye sacred relics, which your marble keep,
Here, undisturb'd by wars, in quiet sleep:
Discharge the trust, which, when it was below,
Pairbone's undaunted soul did undergo,
And be the town's Palladium from the foe.
Alive and dead these walls he will defend:
Great actions great examples must attend.
The Candian siege his early valour knew,
Where Turkish blood did his young hands imbrue.
From thence returning with deserved applause,
Against the Moors his well-flesh'd sword he draws;
The same the courage, and the same the cause.
...

Fair, kind, and true, a treasure each alone,
A wife, a mistress, and a friend in one,
Rest in this tomb, raised at thy husband's cost,
Here sadly summing what he had, and lost.
    Come, virgins, ere in equal bands ye join,
Come first, and offer at her sacred shrine;
Pray but for half the virtues of this wife,
Compound for all the rest, with longer life;
And wish your vows, like hers, may be return'd,
So loved when living, and when dead so mourn'd.

And now 'tis time; for their officious haste,
    Who would before have borne him to the sky,
Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past,
    Did let too soon the sacred eagle[1] fly.

Though our best notes are treason to his fame,
    Join'd with the loud applause of public voice;
Since Heaven, what praise we offer to his name,
    Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.

Though in his praise no arts can liberal be,
    Since they, whose muses have the highest flown,
Add not to his immortal memory,
    But do an act of friendship to their own:

Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too,
    Such monuments as we can build to raise;
Lest all the world prevent what we should do,
    And claim a title in him by their praise.
...

    TIR. Choose the darkest part o' th' grove,
    Such as ghosts at noonday love.
    Dig a trench, and dig it nigh
    Where the bones of Laius lie;
    Altars raised, of turf or stone,
    Will th' infernal powers have none,
    Answer me, if this be done?

    ALL PR. 'Tis done.

    TIR. Is the sacrifice made fit?
    Draw her backward to the pit:
    Draw the barren heifer back;
    Barren let her be, and black.

    Cut the curl'd hair that grows
    Full betwixt her horns and brows:
    And turn your faces from the sun,
    Answer me, if this be done?

    ALL PR. 'Tis done.

    TIR. Pour in blood, and blood-like wine,
    To Mother Earth and Proserpine:
    Mingle milk into the stream;
    Feast the ghosts...

    All human things are subject to decay,
    And when fate summons, monarchs must obey.
    This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young
    Was call'd to empire, and had govern'd long;
    In prose and verse, was own'd, without dispute,
    Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute.
    This aged prince, now flourishing in peace,
    And blest with issue of a large increase;
    Worn out with business, did at length debate
    To settle the succession of the state:
    And, pondering which of all his sons was fit
    To reign, and wage immortal war with wit,
    Cried, 'Tis resolved; for nature pleads, that he
    Should only rule, who most resembles me.
    Shadwell alone my perfect image bears,
    Mature in dulness from his tender years:
    Shadwel...

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...

A Pastoral Elegy.


    'Twas on a joyless and a gloomy morn,
    Wet was the grass, and hung with pearls the thorn;
    When Damon, who design'd to pass the day
    With hounds and horns, and chase the flying prey,
    Rose early from his bed; but soon he found
    The welkin pitch'd with sullen clouds around,
    An eastern wind, and dew upon the ground.
    Thus while he stood, and, sighing, did survey
    The fields, and cursed the ill omens of the day,
    He saw Menalcas come with heavy pace;
    Wet were his eyes, and cheerless was his face:
    He wrung his hands, distracted with his care,
    And sent his voice before him from afar.
    Return, he cried, return, unhappy swain!
    The spungy clouds are fill'd with gathering rain:
    The pro...

    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...

(Set To Music By Dr Blow.)


Mark how the lark and linnet sing;
With rival notes
They strain their warbling throats,
To welcome in the spring.
But in the close of night,
When Philomel begins her heavenly lay,
They cease their mutual spite,
Drink in her music with delight,
And, listening, silently obey.

So ceased the rival crew, when Purcell came;
They sung no more, or only sung his fame:
Struck dumb, they all admired the godlike man:
The godlike man,
Alas! too soon retired,
As he too late began.
We beg not hell our Orpheus to restore:
Had he been there,
Their sovereign's fear
Had sent him back before.
The power of harmony too well they knew:
He long ere this had tuned their jarring sphere,
And left no hell below.

    Below this marble monument is laid
    All that heaven wants of this celestial maid.
    Preserve, O sacred tomb! thy trust consign'd;
    The mould was made on purpose for the mind:
    And she would lose, if, at the latter day,
    One atom could be mix'd of other clay.
    Such were the features of her heavenly face,
    Her limbs were form'd with such harmonious grace:
    So faultless was the frame, as if the whole
    Had been an emanation of the soul:
    Which her own inward symmetry reveal'd
    And like a picture shone, in glass anneal'd.
    Or like the sun eclipsed, with shaded light:
    Too piercing, else, to be sustain'd by sight.
    Each thought was visible that roll'd within:
    As through a crystal case the figured hours are seen.
    A...

He who in impious times undaunted stood,
And 'midst rebellion durst be just and good;
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more
Confirm'd the cause for which he sought before,
Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince,
For what his earthly could not recompense.
Pray, reader, that such times no more appear:
Or, if they happen, learn true honour here.
Ask of this age's faith and loyalty,
Which, to preserve them, Heaven confined in thee.
Few subjects could a king like thine deserve;
And fewer such a king so well could serve.
Blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state
By sufferings rose, and gave the law to fate!
Such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given
To earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven.