John Dryden (1631 – 1700)
Influential English poet, literary critic, and playwright.
Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command
Some peaceful province in acrostic land.
There thou mayst wings display and altars raise,
And torture one poor word ten thousand ways.
Not only hating David, but the king.
What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
Arms, and the man I sing, who, forced by Fate,
And haughty Juno’s unrelenting hate,
Expelled and exiled, left the Trojan shore.
All have not the gift of martyrdom.
The soft complaining flute,
In dying notes, discovers
The woes of hopeless lovers.
Like a led victim, to my death I'll go,
And, dying, bless the hand that gave the blow.
With how much ease believe we what we wish!
Our vows are heard betimes! and Heaven takes care
To grant, before we can conclude the prayer:
Preventing angels met it half the way,
And sent us back to praise, who came to pray.
Since ev’ry man who lives is born to die,
And none can boast sincere felicity,
With equal mind, what happens, let us bear,
Nor joy nor grieve too much for things beyond our care.
Nor is the people's judgment always true:
The most may err as grossly as the few.
Of seeming arms to make a short essay,
Then hasten to be drunk — the business of the day.
For truth has such a face and such a mien
As to be loved needs only to be seen.
He was exhaled; his great Creator drew
His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.
Genius must be born, and never can be taught.
What flocks of critics hover here to-day,
As vultures wait on armies for their prey,
All gaping for the carcase of a play!
With croaking notes they bode some dire event,
And follow dying poets by the scent.
Thus in a pageant-show a plot is made;
And peace itself is war in masquerade.
An horrid stillness first invades the ear,
And in that silence we the tempest fear.
Too black for heav'n, and yet too white for hell.
War seldom enters but where wealth allures.