The Poetical Works of John Dryden Volume Ii Part 23

As Jupiter I made my court in vain; I'll now a.s.sume my native shape again.

I'm weary to be so unkindly used, And would not be a G.o.d 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 G.o.d command; No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand. 10 '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,[52] our bonds more easy make, And gracefully, what all must suffer, take: Above those forms the grave affect to wear; For 'tis not to be wise to be severe.

True wisdom may some gallantry admit, And soften business with the charms of wit. 20 These peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought, And from the midst of fighting nations brought.

You only hear it thunder from afar, And sit in peace the arbiter of war: Peace, the loathed manna, which hot brains despise.

You knew its worth, and made it early prize: And in its happy leisure sit and see The promises of more felicity: Two glorious nymphs,[53] of your own G.o.dlike line, Whose morning rays like noontide strike and s.h.i.+ne: 30 Whom you to suppliant monarchs shall dispose, To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 51: 'Calisto:' a Masque, written by Crowne, Dryden's rival and Rochester's protege; this Epilogue was through Rochester's influence rejected.]

[Footnote 52: This part of the Epilogue is addressed to the King.]

XVII.

PROLOGUE TO "AURENGZEBE."

Our author, by experience, finds it true, 'Tis much more hard to please himself than you; And out of no feign'd modesty, this day d.a.m.ns his laborious trifle of a play; Not that it's worse than what before he writ, But he has now another taste of wit; And, to confess a truth, though out of time, Grows weary of his long-loved mistress, Rhyme.

Pa.s.sion's too fierce to be in fetters bound, And nature flies him like enchanted ground: 10 What verse can do, he has perform'd in this, Which he presumes the most correct of his; But spite of all his pride, a secret shame Invades his breast at Shakspeare's sacred name: Awed when he hears his G.o.dlike Romans rage, He, in a just despair, would quit the stage; And to an age less polish'd, more unskill'd, Does, with disdain, the foremost honours yield.

As with the greater dead he dares not strive, He would not match his verse with those who live: 20 Let him retire, betwixt two ages cast, The first of this, and hindmost of the last.

A losing gamester, let him sneak away; He bears no ready money from the play.

The fate which governs poets, thought it fit He should not raise his fortunes by his wit.

The clergy thrive, and the litigious bar; Dull heroes fatten with the spoils of war: All southern vices, heaven be praised, are here; But wit's a luxury you think too dear. 30 When you to cultivate the plant are loth, 'Tis a shrewd sign, 'twas never of your growth; And wit in northern climates will not blow, Except, like orange trees, 'tis housed with snow.

There needs no care to put a playhouse down, 'Tis the most desert place of all the town: We, and our neighbours, to speak proudly, are, Like monarchs, ruin'd with expensive war; While, likewise English, unconcern'd you sit, And see us play the tragedy of wit. 40

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 53: The Duke of York's two daughters, Mary and Ann.]

XVIII.

EPILOGUE TO "THE MAN OF MODE; OR, SIR FOPLING FLUTTER;"

BY SIR GEORGE ETHEREGE, 1676.

Most modern wits such monstrous fools have shown, They seem not of Heaven's making, but their own.

Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pa.s.s; But there goes more to a substantial a.s.s: Something of man must be exposed to view, That, gallants, they may more resemble you.

Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ, The ladies would mistake him for a wit; And, when he sings, talks loud, and c.o.c.ks, would cry, I vow, methinks, he's pretty company: 10 So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refined, As he took pains to graff upon his kind.

True fops help nature's work, and go to school To file and finish G.o.d Almighty's fool.

Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call; He's knight o' the s.h.i.+re, and represents ye all.

From each he meets he culls whate'er he can; Legion's his name, a people in a man.

His bulky folly gathers as it goes, And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows. 20 His various modes from various fathers follow; One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow: His sword-knot this, his cravat that design'd; And this the yard-long snake he twirls behind.

From one the sacred periwig he gain'd, Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.

Another's diving bow he did adore, Which with a shog casts all the hair before, Till he, with full decorum, brings it back, And rises with a water-spaniel shake. 30 As for his songs, the ladies' dear delight, These sure he took from most of you who write.

Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd; For no one fool is hunted from the herd.

XIX.

EPILOGUE TO "ALL FOR LOVE."

Poets, like disputants, when reasons fail, Have one sure refuge left--and that's to rail.

Fop, c.o.xcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit; And this is all their equipage of wit.

We wonder how the devil this difference grows, Betwixt our fools in verse, and yours in prose: For, 'faith, the quarrel rightly understood, 'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.

The threadbare author hates the gaudy coat; And swears at the gilt coach, but swears afoot: 10 For 'tis observed of every scribbling man, He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can; Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the gla.s.s, If pink and purple best become his face.

For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays; Nor likes your wit, just as you like his plays; He has not yet so much of Mr Bayes.

He does his best; and if he cannot please, Would quietly sue out his writ of ease.

Yet, if he might his own grand jury call, 20 By the fair s.e.x he begs to stand or fall.

Let Caesar's power the men's ambition move, But grace you him who lost the world for love!

Yet if some antiquated lady say, The last age is not copied in his play; Heaven help the man who for that face must drudge, Which only has the wrinkles of a judge.

Let not the young and beauteous join with those; For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes, Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call; 30 'Tis more than one man's work to please you all.

XX.

PROLOGUE TO "LIMBERHAM."

True wit has seen its best days long ago; It ne'er look'd up, since we were dipp'd in show: When sense in doggerel rhymes and clouds was lost, And dulness flourish'd at the actors' cost.

Nor stopp'd it here; when tragedy was done, Satire and humour the same fate have run, And comedy is sunk to trick and pun.

Now our machining lumber will not sell, And you no longer care for heaven or h.e.l.l; What stuff can please you next, the Lord can tell. 10 Let them, who the rebellion first began To wit restore the monarch, if they can; Our author dares not be the first bold man.

He, like the prudent citizen, takes care To keep for better marts his staple ware; His toys are good enough for Sturbridge fair.

Tricks were the fas.h.i.+on; if it now be spent, 'Tis time enough at Easter to invent; No man will make up a new suit for Lent.