John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  As we strew Rats-bane when we Vermine fear,

  ‘Twere worth our Cost to scatter Fool-bane here; 50

  And after all our judging Fops were serv’d,

  Dull Poets too shou’d have a Dose reserv’d,

  Such Reprobates as, past all Sence of Shaming,

  Write on, and nere are satisfy’d with Damming,

  Next, those, to whom the Stage does not belong 55

  Such whose Vocation onely is to Song,

  At most to Prologue; when for Want of Time

  Poets take in for Journey work in Rhime.

  But I want Curses for those mighty Shoales

  Of scribling Chlorisses, and Phillis Fools: 60

  Those Ophs should be restrain’d, during their Lives,

  From Pen and Ink, as Madmen are from Knives:

  I cou’d rayl on, but ‘twere a Task as vain

  As Preaching Truth at Rome, or Wit in Spain:

  Yet to huff out our Play was worth my trying; 65

  John Lilbourn scap’d his Judges by defying.

  If guilty, yet I’m sure oth’ Churches Blessing,

  By suffering for the Plot, without confessing.

  Prologue to Cæsar Borgia, Son of Pope Alexander the Sixth

  TH’ unhappy man who once has trail’d a Pen,

  Lives not to please himself, but other men;

  Is always drudging, wasts his Life and Blood.

  Yet only eats and drinks what you think good.

  What praise soe’re the Poetry deserve, 5

  Yet every Fool can bid the Poet starve.

  That fumbling Lecher to revenge is bent,

  Because he thinks himself or Whore is meant:

  Name but a Cuckold, all the City swarms;

  From Leaden-hall to Ludgate is in Arms. 10

  Were there no fear of Antichrist or France,

  In the best times poor Poets live by chance.

  Either you come not here, or, as you grace

  Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,

  Careless and qualmish with a yawning Face. 15

  You sleep o’re Wit, and by my troth you may;

  Most of your Talents lye another way.

  You love to hear of some prodigious Tale,

  The Bell that tolled alone, or Irish Whale.

  News is your Food, and you enough provide, 20

  Both for your selves and all the World beside.

  One Theatre there is of vast resort,

  Which whilome of Requests was called the Court.

  But now the great Exchange of News ’tis hight,

  And full of hum and buzz from Noon till Night: 25

  Up Stairs and down you run, as for a Race,

  And each Man wears three Nations in his Face.

  So big you look, tho’ Claret you retrench,

  That, arm’d with bottled Ale, you huff the French.

  But all your Entertainment still is fed 30

  By Villains in our own dull Island bred:

  Would you return to us, we dare engage

  To show you better Rogues upon the Stage.

  You know no Poison but plain Rats-bane here;

  Death’s more refind, and better bred elsewhere. 35

  They have a civil way in Italy

  By smelling a perfume to make you dye,

  A Trick would make you lay your Snuffbox by.

  Murder’s a Trade — so known and practis’d there,

  That ’tis Infallible as is the Chair —— 40

  But mark their Feasts, you shall behold such Pranks;

  The Pope says Grace, but ’tis the Devil gives Thanks.

  The Prologue at Oxford, 1680

  Thespis, the first Professor of our Art,

  At Country Wakes, Sung Ballads in a Cart.

  To prove this true, if Latin be no Trespass,

  Dicitur et Plaustris vexisse Poemata Thespis.

  But Eschylus, says Horace in some Page, 5

  Was the first Mountebank e’er trod the Stage;

  Yet Athens never knew your learned Sport

  Of tossing Poets in a Tennis-Court.

  But ’tis the Talent of our English Nation

  Still to be plotting some new Reformation; 10

  And few years hence, if anarchy go on,

  Jack Presbyter will here erect his Throne,

  Knock out a Tub with Preaching once a Day.

  And every Prayer be longer than a Play.

  Then all you Heathen Wits shall go to pot 15

  For disbelieving of a Popish plot:

  Nor should we want the Sentence to depart

  Ev’n in our first Original, a Cart.

  Occham, Dun Scotus, must though learn’d go down,

  As chief Supporters of the Triple Crown. 20

  And Aristotle for destruction ripe:

  Some say he call’d the Soul an Organ-pipe,

  Which, by some little help of Derivation,

  Shall thence be call’d a Pipe of Inspiration.

  Your wiser Judgments further penetrate 25

  Who late found out one Tare amongst the Wheat,

  This is our Comfort: none e’er cried us down

  But who disturb’d both Bishop and a Crown.

  Prologue to The Loyal General

  IF yet there be a few that take delight

  In that which reasonable Men should write,

  To them Alone we Dedicate this Night.

  The Rest may satisfie their curious Itch

  With City Gazets, or some Factious Speech, 5

  Or what-ere Libel, for the Publick Good,

  Stirs up the Shrove-tide Crew to Fire and Blood.

  Remove your Benches, you apostate Pit,

  And take Above, twelve penny-worth of Wit:

  Go back to your dear Dancing on the Rope, 10

  Or see what’s worse, the Devil and the Pope!

  The Plays that take on our Corrupted Stage,

  Methinks, resemble the distracted Age;

  Noise, Madness, all unreasonable Things,

  That strike at Sense, as Rebels do at Kings! 15

  The stile of Forty One our Poets write,

  And you are grown to judge like Forty Eight.

  Such Censures our mistaking Audience make,

  That ’tis almost grown scandalous to take.

  They talk of Feavours that infect the Brains; 20

  But Non-sence is the new Disease that reigns.

  Weak Stomachs, with a long Disease opprest,

  Cannot the Cordials of strong Wit digest;

  Therefore thin Nourishment of Farce ye choose,

  Decoctions of a Barly-water Muse: 25

  A Meal of Tragedy wou’d make ye Sick,

  Unless it were a very tender Chick.

  Some Scenes in Sippets would be worth our time:

  Those wou’d go down; some Love that’s poach’d in Rime;

  If these shou’d fail —— 30

  We must lie down, and, after all our cost,

  Keep Holy-day, like Water-men in Frost;

  Whilst you turn Players on the Worlds great Stage,

  And Act your selves the Farce of your own Age.

  Prologue to The Spanish Fryar, or the Double Discovery

  NOW, Luck for us, and a kind hearty Pit,

  For he who pleases, never failes of Wit.

  Honour is yours:

  And you, like Kings at City Treats, bestow it;

  The Writer kneels, and is bid rise a Poet. 5

  But you are fickle Sovereigns, to our Sorrow;

  You dubb to day, and hang a man tomorrow:

  You cry the same Sense up, and down again,

  Just like brass Money once a year in Spain:

  Take you i’ th’ mood, what e’er base metal come, 10

  You coin as fast as Groats at Bromingam;

  Though ’tis no more like Sense in ancient Plays

  Than Rome’s religion like St. Peter’s days.

  In short, so swift your Judgments turn and wind,


  You cast our fleetest Wits a mile behind. 15

  ‘Twere well your Judgments but in Plays did range,

  But ev’n your Follies and Debauches change

  With such a Whirl, the Poets of your Age

  Are tyr’d, and cannot score ‘em on the Stage,

  Unless each Vice in short-hand they indite, 20

  Ev’n as notcht Prentices whole Sermons write.

  The heavy Hollanders no Vices know,

  But what they us’d a hundred years ago;

  Like honest Plants, where they were stuck, they grow;

  They cheat, but still from cheating Sires they come; 25

  They drink, but they were christen’d first in Mum.

  Their patrimonial Sloth the Spaniards keep,

  And Philip first taught Philip how to sleep.

  The French and we still change; but here’s the Curse,

  They change for better, and we change for worse; 30

  They take up our old trade of Conquering,

  And we are taking theirs, to dance and sing:

  Our Fathers did for change to France repair,

  And they for change will try our English Air.

  As Children, when they throw one Toy away, 35

  Straight a more foolish Gugaw comes in play;

  So we, grown penitent, on serious thinking,

  Leave Whoring, and devoutly fall to Drinking.

  Scowring the Watch grows out of fashion wit;

  Now we set up for Tilting in the Pit, 40

  Where ’tis agreed by Bullies, chicken-hearted,

  To fright the Ladies first, and then be parted.

  A fair attempt has twice or thrice been made,

  To hire Night-murth’rers, and make Death a Trade.

  When Murther’s out, what Vice can we advance? 45

  Unless the new-found Pois’ning Trick of France:

  And when their art of Rats-bane we have got,

  By way of thanks, we’ll send ‘em o’er our Plot.

  Epilogue to Tamerlane the Great

  LADIES, the Beardless Author of this Day

  Commends to you the Fortune of his Play.

  A Woman Wit has often grac’d the Stage,

  But he’s the first Boy-Poet of our Age

  Early as is the Year his Fancies blow, 5

  Like young Narcissus peeping through the Snow;

  Thus Cowley blossom’d soon, yet Flourish’d long,

  This is as forward, and may prove as strong.

  Youth with the Fair should always Favour find,

  Or we are damn’d Dissemblers of our kind. 10

  What’s all this Love they put into our Parts?

  ’Tis but the pit-a-pat of Two Young Hearts.

  Shou’d Hag and Gray-beard make such tender moan,

  Faith, you’d e’en trust ‘em to themselves alone,

  And cry, let’s go, here’s nothing to be done. 15

  Since Love’s our Business, as ’tis your Delight,

  The Young, who best can practise, best can Write.

  What though he be not come to his full Pow’r?

  He’s mending and improving every Hour.

  You sly She-Jockies of the Box and Pit 20

  Are pleas’d to find a hot unbroken Wit,

  By management he may in time be made,

  But there’s no hopes of an old batter’d Jade;

  Faint and unnerv’d he runs into a Sweat,

  And always fails you at the Second Heat. 25

  A Prologue (“Gallants, a bashful Poet bids me say”)

  GALLANTS, a bashful Poet bids me say

  He’s come to lose his Maidenhead to-day.

  Be not too fierce, for he’s but green of Age,

  And ne’re till now debauch’d upon the Stage.

  He wants the suff’ring part of Resolution, 5

  And comes with blushes to his Execution.

  E’re you deflow’r his Muse, he hopes the Pit

  Will make some Settlement upon his Wit.

  Promise him well, before the Play begin;

  For he wou’d fain be cozen’d into Sin. 10

  ’Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail;

  But, if you leave him after being frail,

  He’ll have, at least, a fair Pretence to rail;

  To call you base, and swear you us’d him ill,

  And put you in the new Deserters Bill: 15

  Lord, what a Troop of perjur’d Men we see;

  Enough to fill another Mercury!

  But this the Ladies may with patience brook:

  Their’s are not the first Colours you forsook!

  He wou’d be loth the Beauties to offend; 20

  But if he shou’d, he’s not too old to mend.

  He’s a young Plant, in his first Year of bearing,

  But his Friend swears he will be worth the reering.

  His Gloss is still upon him, tho’s ’tis true

  He’s yet unripe, yet take him for the blue. 25

  You think an Apricot half green is best;

  There’s sweet and sour; and one side good at least.

  Mango’s and Limes, whose Nourishment is little,

  Tho’ not for Food, are yet preserv’d for Pickle.

  So this green Writer may pretend, at least, 30

  To whet your Stomachs for a better Feast.

  He makes this Difference in the Sexes too;

  He sells to Men, he gives himself to you.

  To both he wou’d contribute some delight;

  A mere Poetical Hermaphrodite, 35

  Thus he’s equipp’d, both to be woo’d and woo;

  With Arms offensive, and defensive too;

  ’Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do.

  Prologue and Epilogue to The Princess of Cleves

  PROLOGUE.

  LADIES! (I hope there’s none behind to hear,)

  I long to whisper something in your Ear,

  A Secret, which does much my Mind perplex:

  There’s Treason in the Play against our Sex.

  A Man that’s false to Love, that vows and cheats, 5

  And kisses every living thing he meets!

  A Rogue in Mode, I dare not speak too broad,

  One that does something to the very Bawd.

  Out on him, Traytor, for a filthy Beast!

  Nay, and he’s like the pack of all the rest: 10

  None of ‘em stick at mark; They all deceive.

  Some Jew has changed the Text, I half believe;

  Their Adam cozen’d our poor Grandame Eve.

  To hide their Faults they rap out Oaths, and tear;

  Now tho’ we lye, we’re too well-bred to swear. 15

  So we compound for half the Sin we owe,

  But men are dipt for Soul and Body too;

  And, when found out, excuse themselves, Pox cant ‘em,

  With Latin stuff, perjuria ridet Amantum.

  I’m not Book Learn’d, to know that word in vogue, 20

  But I suspect ’tis Latin for a Rogue.

  I’m sure, I never heard that Schritch-Owl hollow’d

  In my poor Ears, but Separation follow’d.

  How can such perjur’d Villains e’er be saved?

  Achitophel’s not half so false to David. 25

  With Vows and soft Expressions to allure,

  They stand, like Foremen of a Shop, demure:

  No sooner out of sight, but they are gadding,

  And for the next new Face ride out a padding.

  Yet, by their Favour, when they have bin kissing, 30

  We can perceive the ready Mony missing.

  Well! we may rail; but ’tis as good e’en wink;

  Something we find, and something they will sink.

  But, since they’re at renouncing, ’tis our Parts

  To trump their Diamonds, & they trump our Hearts. 35

  EPILOGUE

  A Qualm of Conscience brings me back agen,

  To make amends to you bespatter’d Men.

/>   We Women love like Cats, that hide their Joys

  By growling, squaling, and a hideous Noise.

  I rail’d at wild young Sparks; but without lying, 40

  Never was Man worse thought on for high-flying.

  The Prodigal of Love gives each her Part,

  And Squandring shows at least a noble Heart.

  I’ve heard of Men, who, in some lewd Lampoon,

  Have hir’d a Friend to make their Valour known. 45

  That Accusation straight this Question brings,

  What is the Man that does such naughty things?

  The Spaniel Lover, like a sneaking Fop,

  Lies at our Feet; he’s scarce worth taking up,

  Tis true, such Heroes in a Play go far; 50

  But Chamber Practice is not like the Bar.

  When Men such vile, such feint Petitions make,

  We fear to give, because they fear to take;

  Since Modesty’s the Virtue of our Kind,

  Pray let it be to our own Sex confin’d. 55

  When Men usurp it from the Female Nation,

  ’Tis but a Work of Supererogation ——

  We show’d a Princess in the Play, ’tis true,

  Who gave her Cæsar more than all his due;

  Told her own Faults; but I shou’d much abhor 60

  To choose a Husband for my Confessor.

  You see what Fate follow’d the Saint-like Fool,

  For telling Tales from out the Nuptial School.

  Our Play a merry Comedy had prov’d,

  Had she confess’d as much to him she lov’d. 65

  True Presbyterian-Wives the means wou’d try:

  But damn’d Confessing is flat Popery.

  First Prologue to the University of Oxford

  THE FAM’D Italian Muse, whose Rhymes advance

  Orlando, and the Paladins of France,

  Records that, when our Wit and Sense is flown,

  ’Tis lodg’d within the Circle of the Moon

  In Earthen Jars, which one, who thither soar’d, 5

  Set to his Nose, snufft up, and was restor’d.

  What e’re the Story be, the Moral’s true;

  The Wit we lost in Town we find in you.

  Our Poets their fled Parts may draw from hence,

  And fill their windy Heads with sober Sense. 10

  When London Votes with Southwark’s disagree,

  Here may they find their long-lost Loyalty,

  Here busie Senates, to th’ old Cause inclin’d,

  May snuff the Votes their Fellows left behind:

  Your Country Neighbours, when their Grain grows dear, 15

  May come, and find their last Provision here;