by John Dryden
Their Patrons promise into question call,
And vainly think he meant to make ‘em Lords of all.
False Fears their Leaders fail’d not to suggest, 1205
As if the Doves were to be dispossess’t;
Nor Sighs nor Groans nor gogling Eyes did want,
For now the Pigeons too had learned to Cant.
The House of Pray’r is stock’d with large encrease;
Nor Doors, nor Windows can contain the Press: 1210
For Birds of ev’ry feather fill th’ abode;
Ev’n Atheists out of envy own a God:
And, reeking from the Stews, Adult’rers come,
Like Goths and Vandals to demolish Rome.
That Conscience, which to all their Crimes was mute, 1215
Now calls aloud, and cryes to Persecute.
No rigour of the Laws to be releas’d,
And much the less, because it was their Lords request:
They thought it great their Sov’rain to controul,
And nam’d their Pride, Nobility of Soul. 1220
’Tis true, the Pigeons and their Prince Elect
Were short of Pow’r their purpose to effect:
But with their quills, did all the hurt they cou’d,
And cuff’d the tender Chickens from their food:
And much the Buzzard in their Cause did stir, 1225
Tho’ naming not the Patron, to infer,
With all respect, He was a gross Idolater.
But when th’ Imperial owner did espy
That thus they turn’d his Grace to villany,
Not suff’ring wrath to discompose his mind, 1230
He strove a temper for th’ extreams to find,
So to be just, as he might still be kind.
Then, all maturely weigh’d, pronounc’d a Doom
Of Sacred Strength for ev’ry Age to come.
By this the Doves their Wealth and State possess, 1235
No Rights infring’d, but Licence to oppress:
Such Pow’r have they as Factious Lawyers long
To Crowns ascrib’d, that Kings can do no wrong.
But, since his own Domestick Birds have try’d
The dire Effects of their destructive Pride, 1240
He deems that Proof a Measure to the rest,
Concluding well within his Kingly Breast
His Fowl of Nature too unjustly were opprest.
He therefore makes all Birds of ev’ry Sect
Free of his Farm, with promise to respect 1245
Their sev’ral Kinds alike, and equally protect.
His Gracious Edict the same Franchise yields
To all the wild Encrease of Woods and Fields,
And who in Rocks aloof, and who in Steeples builds.
To Crows the like Impartial Grace affords, 1250
And Choughs and Daws, and such Republick Birds:
Secur’d with ample Priviledge to feed,
Each has his District, and his Bounds decreed:
Combin’d in common Int’rest with his own,
But not to pass the Pigeons Rubicon. 1255
Here ends the Reign of this pretended Dove;
All Prophecies accomplish’d from above,
For Shiloh comes the Scepter to remove.
Reduc’d from Her Imperial High Abode,
Like Dyonysius to a private Rod, 1260
The Passive Church, that with pretended Grace
Did Her distinctive Mark in duty place,
Now Touch’d, Reviles her Maker to his Face.
What after happen’d is not hard to guess;
The small Beginnings had a large Encrease, 1265
And Arts and Wealth succeed (the secret spoils of Peace.)
’Tis said the Doves repented, tho’ too late
Become the Smiths of their own Foolish Fate:
Nor did their Owner hasten their ill hour:
But, sunk in Credit, they decreas’d in Pow’r: 1270
Like Snows in warmth that mildly pass away,
Dissolving in the Silence of Decay.
The Buzzard, not content with equal place,
Invites the feather’d Nimrods of his Race,
To hide the thinness of their Flock from Sight, 1275
And all together make a seeming, goodly Flight:
But each have sep’rate Interests of their own;
Two Czars, are one too many for a throne.
Nor can th’ usurper long abstain from Food,
Already he has tasted Pigeons Blood: 1280
And may be tempted to his former fare,
When this Indulgent Lord shall late to Heav’n repair.
Bare benting times, and moulting Months may come,
When lagging late, they cannot reach their home:
Or Rent in schism, (for so their Fate decrees,) 1285
Like the Tumultuous Colledge of the Bees;
They fight their Quarrel, by themselves opprest;
The Tyrant smiles below, and waits the falling feast.
Thus did the gentle Hind her fable end,
Nor would the Panther blame it, nor commend; 1290
But, with affected Yawnings at the close,
Seem’d to require her natural repose.
For now the streaky light began to peep;
And setting stars admonish’d both to sleep.
The Dame withdrew, and wishing to her Guest 1295
The peace of Heav’n, betook her self to rest.
Ten thousand Angels on her slumbers waite
With glorious Visions of her future state.
FINIS.
EPISTLES AND COMPLIMENTARY ADDRESSES
CONTENTS
To John Hoddesdon, on his Divine Epigrams
To my Honored Friend Sir Robert Howard on his Excellent Poems
To my Honour’d Friend Dr. Charleton, on his learned and useful Works
To the Lady Castlemaine, upon Her incouraging his first Play
To Mr. Lee, on his Alexander
To the Earl of Roscomon, on his Excellent Essay on Translated Verse
To my Friend, Mr. Northleigh, Author of The Parallel, on his Triumph of the British Monarchy
To my Ingenious Friend, Henry Higden, Esq., on his Translation of the Tenth Satyr of Juvenal
A Letter to Sir George Etherege
To Mr. Southern, on his Comedy called The Wives Excuse
To my Dear Friend, Mr. Congreve, on his Comedy called The Double-Dealer
To Sir Godfrey Kneller, principal Painter to His Majesty
To Mr. Granville, on his excellent Tragedy, called Heroick Love
To Peter Antony Motteux, on his Tragedy, called Beauty in Distress
To my honour’d Kinsman, John Driden
To John Hoddesdon, on his Divine Epigrams
THOU hast inspired me with thy soul, and I,
Who ne’re before could ken of poetry,
Am grown so good proficient I can lend
A line in commendation of my friend;
Yet ’tis but of the second hand; if ought 5
There be in this, ’tis from thy fancy brought.
Good thief who dar’st Prometheus-like aspire,
And fill thy poems with Celestiall fire,
Enliven’d by these sparks divine, their rayes
Adde a bright lustre to thy crown of bayes. 10
Young eaglet, who thy nest thus soon forsook,
So lofty and divine a course hast took
As all admire, before the down begin
To peep, as yet, upon thy smoother Chin;
And, making heaven thy aim, hast had the grace 15
To look the sunne of righteousnesse ith’ face.
What may we hope, if thou go’st on thus fast!
Scriptures at first, Enthusiasmes at last!
Thou hast commenc’d, betimes, a saint: go on,
Mingling Diviner streams with Helicon, 20
That they who view what Epigrams here be,
May learn to m
ake like, in just praise of thee.
Reader, I’ve done, nor longer will withhold
Thy greedy eyes; looking on this pure gold
Thou’lt know adult’rate copper, which, like this, 25
Will onely serve to be a foil to his.
J. DRYDEN, of Trin. C.
To my Honored Friend Sir Robert Howard on his Excellent Poems
AS there is Musick uninform’d by Art
In those wild Notes, which with a merry heart
The Birds in unfrequented shades expresse,
Who better taught at home, yet please us lesse:
So in your Verse, a native sweetnesse dwells, 5
Which shames Composure, and its Art excells.
Singing no more can your soft numbers grace,
Then Paint adds charms unto a beauteous Face.
Yet as when mighty Rivers gently creep,
Their even calmnesse does suppose them deep, 10
Such is your Muse: no Metaphor swell’d high
With dangerous boldnesse lifts her to the sky;
Those mounting Fancies, when they fall again,
Shew sand and dirt at bottom do remain.
So firm a strength and yet withall so sweet, 15
Did never but in Sampson’s Riddle meet.
’Tis strange each line so great a weight should bear,
And yet no signe of toil, no sweat appear.
Either your Art hides Art, as Stoicks feign
Then least to feel, when most they suffer pain; 20
And we, dull souls, admire but cannot see
What hidden springs within the Engine be
Or ’tis some happiness that still pursues
Each act and motion of your gracefull Muse.
Or is it Fortune’s work, that in your head 25
The curious Net that is for fancies spread,
Lets through its Meshes every meaner thought
While rich Idea’s there are only caught?
Sure that’s not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the child of Chance, and not of Care. 30
No Atoms casually together hurl’d
Could e’re produce so beautifull a world.
Nor dare I such a doctrine here admit,
As would destroy the providence of wit.
’Tis your strong Genius then which does not feel 35
Those weights would make a weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight and run so lightly too
Is what alone your Pegasus can do.
Great Hercules himself could ne’re do more,
Than not to feel those Heav’ns and Gods he bore. 40
Your easier odes, which for delight were penn’d,
Yet our instruction make their second end;
We’re both enrich’d and pleas’d, like them that woo
At once a Beauty and a Fortune too.
Of Morall Knowledge Poesie was Queen, 45
And still she might, had wanton wits not been;
Who like ill Guardians liv’d themselves at large,
And, not content with that, debauch’d their charge.
Like some brave Captain, your successful Pen
Restores the Exil’d to her Crown again; 50
And gives us hope that having seen the days
When nothing flourish’d but Fanatique Bays,
All will at length in this opinion rest,
“A sober Prince’s Government is best.
This is not all; your Art the way has found 55
To make improvement of the richest ground,
That soil which those immortal Lawrells bore,
That once the sacred Maro’s temples wore.
Elisa’s griefs, are so expresst by you,
They are too eloquent to have been true. 60
Had she so spoke, Æneas had obey’d
What Dido rather then what Jove had said.
If funerall Rites can give a Ghost repose,
Your Muse so justly had discharged those,
Elisa’s shade may now its wandring cease, 65
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if Æneas be oblig’d, no lesse
Your kindnesse great Achilles doth confesse,
Who, dress’d by Statius in too bold a look,
Did ill become those Virgin’s Robes he took. 70
To understand how much we owe to you,
We must your Numbers with your Author’s view:
Then we shall see his work was lamely rough,
Each figure stiff, as if design’d in buffe:
His colours laid so thick on every place, 75
As onely shew’d the paint, but hid the face.
But as in Perspective we Beauties see,
Which in the glasse, not in the Picture, be;
So here our sight obligeingly mistakes
That wealth, which his your bounty onely makes. 80
Thus vulgar dishes are by Cooks disguis’d,
More for their dressing than their substance priz’d.
Your curious Notes so search into that Age,
When all was fable but the sacred Page,
That, since in that dark night we needs must stray, 85
We are at least misled in pleasant way.
But what we most admire, your Verse no lesse
The Prophet than the Poet doth confess.
Ere our weak eyes discern’d th’ doubtfull streak
Of light, you saw great Charles his morning break. 90
So skilfull Sea-men ken th’ Land from far,
Which shows like mists to the dul Passenger.
To Charls your Muse first pays her dutious love,
As still the Antients did begin from Jove
With Monck you end, whose name preserv’d shall be, 95
As Rome recorded Rufus memory,
Who thought it greater honour to obey
His Countrey’s interest, than the world to sway.
But to write worthy things of worthy men,
Is the peculiar talent of your Pen: 100
Yet let me take your Mantle up, and I
Will venture in your right to prophesy.
“This Work, by merit first of Fame secure,
“Is likewise happy in its Geniture:
“For, since ’tis born when Charls ascends th’ Throne, 105
“It shares at once his Fortune and its own.
To my Honour’d Friend Dr. Charleton, on his learned and useful Works
and more particularly this of Stone-heng, by him Restored to the true Founders.
THE LONGEST Tyranny that ever sway’d
Was that wherein our Ancestors betray’d
Their free-born Reason to the Stagirite,
And made his Torch their universal Light.
So Truth, while onely one suppli’d the State, 5
Grew scarce, and dear, and yet sophisticate;
Until ’twas bought, like Emp’rique Wares, or Charms,
Hard words seal’d up with Aristotle’s Armes.
Columbus was the first that shook his Throne;
And found a Temp’rate in a Torrid Zone, 10
The fevrish aire fann’d by a cooling breez,
The fruitful Vales set round with shady Trees;
And guiltless Men, who danc’d away their time,
Fresh as their Groves and Happy as their Clime.
Had we still paid that homage to a Name, 15
Which only God and Nature justly claim,
The Western Seas had been our utmost bound,
Where Poets still might dream the Sun was drown’d:
And all the Starrs, that shine in Southern Skies,
Had been admir’d by none but Salvage Eyes. 20
Among th’ Assertors of free Reason’s claim,
Th’ English are not the least in Worth, or Fame.
The World to Bacon does not onely owe
Its present Knowledge, but its future too.
Gilbert shall live, till Lode-stones cease
to draw 25
Or British Fleets the boundless Ocean awe.
And noble Boyle, not less in Nature seen,
Than his great Brother read in States and Men.
The Circling streams, once thought but pools, of blood
(Whether Life’s fewel or the Bodie’s food) 30
From dark Oblivion Harvey’s name shall save;
While Ent keeps all the honour that he gave.
Nor are You, Learned Friend, the least renown’d;
Whose Fame, not circumscrib’d with English ground,
Flies like the nimble journeys of the Light; 35
And is, like that, unspent too in its flight.
Whatever Truths have been, by Art, or Chance,
Redeem’d from Error, or from Ignorance,
Thin in their Authors, (like rich veins of Ore)
Your Works unite, and still discover more. 40
Such is the healing virtue of Your Pen,
To perfect Cures on Books, as well as Men.
Nor is This Work the least: You well may give
To Men new vigour, who make Stones to live.
Through You the DANES (their short Dominion lost) 45
A longer Conquest than the Saxons boast.
STONE-HENG, once thought a Temple, You have found
A Throne where Kings, our Earthly Gods, were Crown’d.
Where by their wondring Subjects They were seen,
Joy’d with their Stature and their Princely meen. 50
Our Soveraign here above the rest might stand;
And here be chose again to rule the Land.
These Ruines sheltered once His Sacred Head,
Then when from Wor’ster’s fatal Field He fled;
Watch’d by the Genius of this Royal place, 55
And mighty Visions of the Danish Race,
His Refuge then was for a Temple shown:
But, He Restor’d, ’tis now become a Throne.
To the Lady Castlemaine, upon Her incouraging his first Play
AS Seamen, Shipwrack’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 envy’d Muse, by storms long tost, 5
Is thrown upon your hospitable Coast,
And finds more favour by her ill success,
Than she cou’d hope for by her Happiness.
Once Cato’s Vertue did the Gods oppose,
While they the Victor, He the Vanquish’d chose: 10
But you have done what Cato cou’d not do,
To chuse the Vanquish’d, and restore him too.
Let others still Triumph, and gain their Cause