John Dryden - Delphi Poets Series

by John Dryden

  To find his faults; and yet himself make worse;

  A precious Reader in Poetique Schools,

  Who by his own Examples damns his Rules. 50

  Last, for the Fair, he wishes you may be

  From your dull Critiques, the Lampooners free.

  Tho’ he pretends no Legacy to leave you,

  An Old Man may at least good wishes give you.

  Your Beauty names the Play; and may it prove, 55

  To each, an Omen of Triumphant Love.

  EPILOGUE

  Now, in good Manners, nothing shou’d be sed

  Against this Play, because the Poet’s dead.

  The Prologue told us of a Moral here:

  Wou’d I cou’d find it, but the Devil knows where. 60

  If in my Part it lyes, I fear he means

  To warn us of the Sparks behind our Scenes.

  For, if you’ll take it on Dalinda’s Word,

  ’Tis a hard Chapter to refuse a Lord.

  The Poet might pretend this Moral too, 65

  That when a Wit and Fool together woo,

  The Damsel (not to break an Ancient Rule)

  Shou’d leave the Wit, and take the Wealthy Fool.

  This he might mean; but there’s a Truth behind,

  And, since it touches none of all our Kind 70

  But Masks and Misses, faith, I’le speak my Mind.

  What if he Taught our Sex more cautious Carriage,

  And not to be too Coming before Marriage;

  For fear of my Misfortune in the Play,

  A Kid brought home upon the Wedding day! 75

  I fear there are few Sancho’s in the Pit,

  So good as to forgive and to forget,

  That will, like him, restore us into Favour,

  And take us after on our good Behaviour.

  Few, when they find the Mony Bag is rent, 80

  Will take it for good Payment on content.

  But in the Telling, there the difference is,

  Sometimes they find it more than they cou’d wish.

  Therefore be warn’d, you Misses and you Masks,

  Look to your hits, nor give the first that asks. 85

  Tears, Sighs, and Oaths, no truth of Passion prove;

  True Settlement alone, declares true Love.

  For him that Weds a Puss, who kept her first,

  I say but little, but I doubt the worst:

  The Wife, that was a Cat, may mind her house, 90

  And prove an Honest and a Careful Spouse;

  But, faith, I wou’d not trust her with a Mouse.

  Epilogue to The Husband his own Cuckold

  Spoken by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.

  LIKE some raw Sophister that mounts the Pulpit,

  So trembles a young Poet at a full Pit.

  Unus’d to Crowds, the Parson quakes for fear,

  And wonders how the Devil he durst come there;

  Wanting three Talents needful for the Place, 5

  Some Beard, some Learning, and some little Grace.

  Nor is the Puny Poet void of Care;

  For Authors, such as our new Authors are,

  Have not much Learning, nor much Wit to spare;

  And as for Grace, to tell the Truth, there’s scarce one, 10

  But has as little as the very Parson:

  Both say they Preach and Write for your Instruction;

  But ’tis for a Third Day, and for Induction.

  The difference is, that tho’ you like the Play,

  The Poet’s Gain is ne’er beyond his Day. 15

  But with the Parson ’tis another Case,

  He, without Holiness, may rise to Grace;

  The Poet has one disadvantage more,

  That if his Play be dull, he’s Damn’d all o’er,

  Not only a damn’d Blockhead, but damn’d Poor. 20

  But Dullness well becomes the Sable Garment;

  I warrant that ne’er spoil’d a Priest’s Preferment:

  Wit’s not his Business, and as Wit now goes,

  Sirs, ’tis not so much yours as you suppose,

  For you like nothing now but nauseous Beaux. 25

  You laugh not, Gallants, as by proof appears,

  At what his Beauship says, but what he wears;

  So ’tis your Eyes are tickled, not your Ears.

  The Taylor and the Furrier find the Stuff,

  The Wit lies in the Dress and monstrous Muff. 30

  The Truth on’t is, the Payment of the Pit

  Is like for like, Clipt Money for Clipt Wit.

  You cannot from our absent Author hope

  He should equip the Stage with such a Fop

  Fools Change in England, and new Fools arise; 35

  For, tho’ th’ Immortal Species never dies,

  Yet ev’ry Year new Maggots make new Flies.

  But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find

  One Fool, for Million that he left behind.

  Prologue and Epilogue on the Occasion of a Representation for Dryden’s Benefit, March 25, 1700

  PROLOGUE.

  HOW wretched is the Fate of those who write!

  Brought muzl’d to the Stage, for fear they bite;

  Where, like Tom Dove, they stand the Common Foe,

  Lugg’d by the Critique, Baited by the Beau.

  Yet, worse, their Brother Poets damn the Play, 5

  And Roar the loudest, tho’ they never pay.

  The Fops are proud of Scandal, for they cry,

  At every lewd, low Character, — That’s I.

  He who writes Letters to himself wou’d Swear,

  The World forgot him if he was not there. 10

  What shou’d a Poet do? ’Tis hard for One

  To pleasure all the Fools that wou’d be shown:

  And yet not Two in Ten will pass the Town.

  Most Coxcombs are not of the Laughing kind;

  More goes to make a Fop, than Fops can find. 15

  Quack Maurus, tho’ he never took Degrees

  In either of our Universities,

  Yet to be shown by some kind Wit he looks,

  Because he plai’d the Fool, and writ Three Books.

  But if he wou’d be worth a Poet’s Pen, 20

  He must be more a Fool, and write again:

  For all the former Fustian stuff he wrote

  Was Dead-born Doggrel, or is quite forgot;

  His Man of Uz, stript of his Hebrew Robe,

  Is just the Proverb, and As poor as Job. 25

  One would have thought he could no longer Jog;

  But Arthur was a level, Job’s a Bog.

  There, tho’ he crept, yet still he kept in sight;

  But here, he founders in, and sinks down-right.

  Had he prepar’d us, and been dull by Rule, 30

  Tobit had first been turned to Ridicule;

  But our bold Britton, without Fear or Awe,

  O’er-leaps at once the whole Apocrypha;

  Invades the Psalms with Rhymes, and leaves no room

  For any Vandal Hopkins yet to come. 35

  But when, if, after all, this Godly Geer

  Is not so Senceless as it would appear?

  Our Mountebank has laid a deeper Train;

  His Cant, like Merry Andrew’s Noble Vein,

  Cat-call’s the Sects to draw ‘em in again. 40

  At leisure Hours in Epique Song he deals,

  Writes to the rumbling of his Coaches Wheels;

  Prescribes in hast, and seldom kills by rule,

  But rides Triumphant between Stool and Stool.

  Well, let him go; ’tis yet too early day 45

  To get himself a Place in Farce or Play;

  We know not by what Name we should Arraign him,

  For no one Category can contain him;

  A Pedant, canting Preacher, and a Quack,

  Are load enough to break one Asses Back: 50

  At last, grown wanton, he presum’d to write,

  Traduc’d Two Kings, their kindness
to requite;

  One made the Doctor, and one dubb’d the Knight.

  EPILOGUE

  Perhaps the Parson stretch’d a point too far,

  When with our Theatres he wag’d a War. 55

  He tells you, that this very Moral Age

  Receiv’d the first Infection from the Stage;

  But sure, a banisht Court, with Lewdness fraught,

  The Seeds of open Vice returning brought.

  Thus lodg’d, (as Vice by great Example thrives,) 60

  It first debauch’d the Daughters and the Wives.

  London, a fruitful Soil, yet never bore

  So plentiful a Crop of Horns before.

  The Poets, who must live by Courts or starve,

  Were proud, so good a Government to serve; 65

  And, mixing with Buffoons and Pimps profain,

  Tainted the Stage for some small Snip of Gain;

  For they, like Harlots, under Bawds profess ‘t,

  Took all the ungodly pains, and got the least.

  Thus did the thriving Malady prevail; 70

  The Court it’s Head, the Poets but the Tail.

  The Sin was of our Native Growth, ’tis true;

  The Scandall of the Sin was wholly new.

  Misses there were, but modestly conceal’d;

  White-hall the naked Venus first reveal’d, 75

  Who standing as at Cyprus in her Shrine,

  The Strumpet was ador’d with Rites Divine.

  E’re this, if Saints had any Secret Motion,

  ’Twas Chamber Practice all, and Close Devotion.

  I pass the Peccadillo’s of their time; 80

  Nothing but open Lewdness was a Crime.

  A Monarch’s Blood was venial to the Nation,

  Compar’d with one foul Act of Fornication.

  Now, they wou’d Silence us, and shut the Door

  That let in all the barefac’d Vice before. 85

  As for reforming us, which some pretend,

  That Work in England is without an end;

  Well we may change, but we shall never mend.

  Yet, if you can but bear the present Stage,

  We hope much better of the coming Age. 90

  What wou’d you say, if we should first begin

  To Stop the Trade of Love behind the Scene:

  Where Actresses make bold with married Men?

  For while abroad so prodigal the Dolt is,

  Poor Spouse at Home as ragged as a Colt is. 95

  In short, we’ll grow as Moral as we can,

  Save, here and there, a Woman or a Man;

  But neither you, nor we, with all our pains,

  Can make clean work; there will be some Remains,

  While you have still your Oats, and we our Hains. 100

  SONGS FROM THE PLAYS

  Song of Aerial Spirits, from The Indian Queen

  POOR Mortals that are clog’d with Earth below

  Sink under Love and Care,

  While we that dwell in Air

  Such heavy Passions never know.

  Why then shou’d Mortals be 5

  Unwilling to be free

  From Blood, that sullen Cloud

  Which shining Souls does shroud?

  Then they’l shew bright,

  And like us light, 10

  When leaving Bodies with their Care

  They slide to us and Air.

  Hymn to the Sun, from The Indian Queen

  YOU to whom Victory we owe,

  Whose glories rise

  By sacrifice

  And from our fates below,

  Never did your Altars shine 5

  Feasted with Blood so near divine.

  Princes to whom we bow,

  As they to you,

  Thus you can ravish from a throne,

  And by their loss of pow’r declare your own. 10

  I look’d and saw within the Book of Fate, from The Indian Emperor

  I LOOK’D and saw within the Book of Fate,

  When many Days did lower,

  When lo one happy hour

  Leapt up, and smil’d to save thy sinking State;

  A day shall come when in thy pow’r 5

  Thy cruel Foes shall be

  Then shall thy Land be free

  And then in Peace shall Raign:

  But take, O take that opportunity,

  Which once refus’d will never come again. 10

  Ah fading joy, how quickly art thou past!, from The Indian Emperor

  AH fading joy, how quickly art thou past!

  Yet we thy ruine haste:

  As if the Cares of Humane Life were few,

  We seek out new,

  And follow Fate that does too fast pursue. 5

  See how on ev’ry Bough the Birds express

  In their sweet notes their happiness.

  They all enjoy and nothing spare;

  But on their Mother Nature lay their care:

  Why then should Man, the Lord of all below, 10

  Such troubles chuse to know,

  As none of all his Subjects undergo?

  Hark, hark, the Waters fall, fall, fall

  And with a Murmuring sound

  Dash, dash, upon the ground, 15

  To gentle slumbers call.

  I Feed a Flame within which so torments me, from The Maiden Queen

  I FEED a Flame within which so torments me

  That it both pains my heart, and yet contents me:

  ’Tis such a pleasing smart and I so love it,

  That I had rather die, then once remove it.

  Yet he for whom I grieve shall never know it, 5

  My tongue does not betray, nor my eyes shew it:

  Not a sigh not a tear my pain discloses,

  But they fall silently like dew on Roses.

  Thus to prevent my love from being cruel,

  My heart’s the sacrifice as ’tis the fuel: 10

  And while I suffer thus to give him quiet,

  My faith rewards my love, tho he deny it.

  On his eyes will I gaze, and there delight me;

  Where I conceal my love, no frown can fright me:

  To be more happy I dare not aspire; 15

  Nor can I fall more low, mounting no higher.

  Make ready fair Lady to night, from Sir Martin Marr-All

  He. Make ready fair Lady to night,

  And stand at the Door below,

  For I will be there

  To receive you with Care,

  And to your true Love you shall go. 5

  She. And when the Stars twinckle so bright,

  Then down to the Door will I creep,

  To my Love will I flye,

  E’er the jealous can spye,

  And leave my old daddy asleep. 10

  Blind Love, to this hour, from Sir Martin Marr-All (after Voiture)

  BLIND Love, to this hour,

  Had never like me, a Slave under his Pow’r.

  Then blest be the Dart

  That he threw at my heart,

  For nothing can prove 5

  A joy so great as to be wounded with love.

  My Days and my Nights

  Are fill’d to the purpose with sorrows and frights;

  From my heart still I sigh,

  And my Eyes are ne’r dry, 10

  So that, Cupid be prais’d.

  I am to the top of Love’s happiness rais’d.

  My Soul’s all on fire

  So that I have the pleasure to dote and desire,

  Such a pretty soft pain, 15

  That it tickles each vein,

  ’Tis the dream of a smart,

  Which makes me breathe short when it beats at my heart.

  Sometimes in a Pet,

  When I am despis’d, I my freedom would get; 20

  But straight a sweet smile

  Does my anger beguile,

  And my heart does recall,

  Then the more I do struggle the lower I fall.

  Heaven does not impart 25


  Such a grace as to love unto ev’ry one’s heart;

  For many may wish

  To be wounded, and miss.

  Then blest be loves Fire,

  And more blest her Eyes that first taught me desire. 30

  You charm’d me not with that fair face, from An Evening’s Love

  YOU charm’d me not with that fair face

  Though it was all Divine:

  To be anothers is the Grace,

  That makes me wish you mine.

  The Gods and Fortune take their part 5

  Who like young Monarchs fight;

  And boldly dare invade that Heart

  Which is anothers right.

  First mad with hope we undertake

  To pull up ev’ry Bar; 10

  But once possess’d we faintly make

  A dull defensive War.

  Now ev’ry Friend is turn’d a foe

  In hope to get our store;

  And passion makes us Cowards grow 15

  Which made us brave before.

  After the pangs of a desperate Lover, from An Evening’s Love

  AFTER the pangs of a desperate Lover.

  When day and night I have sigh’d all in vain,

  Ah what a Pleasure it is to discover

  In her eyes pity, who causes my pain!

  When with unkindness our Love at a stand is, 5

  And both have punish’d our selves with the pain,

  Ah what a pleasure the touch of her hand is,

  Ah what a pleasure to press it again!

  When the denial comes fainter and fainter,

  And her Eyes give what her tongue does deny, 10

  Ah what a trembling I feel when I venture,

  Ah what a Trembling does usher my joy!

  When, with a Sigh, she accords me the blessing,

  And her Eyes twinkle ‘twixt pleasure and pain;

  Ah what a joy ’tis, beyond all Expressing, 15

  Ah what a joy to hear, shall we again!

  Calm was the Even, and clear was the Sky, from An Evening’s Love

  CALM was the Even, and clear was the Sky,

  And the new-budding Flowers did spring,

  When all alone went Amyntas and I

  To hear the sweet Nightingal sing;

  I sate, and he laid him down by me; 5

  But scarcely his breath he could draw;

  For when with a fear, he began to draw near,

  He was dash’d with A ha ha ha ha!

  He blush’d to himself, and lay still for a while,

  And his modesty curb’d his desire; 10

  But straight I convinc’d all his fear with a smile,