John Dryden

Creator Spirit, by whose aid The world's foundations first were laid, Come, visit ev'ry pious mind; Come, pour thy joys on human kind; From sin, and sorrow set us free; And make thy temples worthy Thee. O, Source of uncreated Light, The Father's promis'd Paraclete! Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire, Our hearts with heav'nly love inspire; Come, and thy Sacred Unction bring To sanctify us, while we sing! Plenteous of grace, descend from high, Rich in thy sev'n-fold energy! Thou strength of his Almighty Hand, Whose pow'r does heav'n and earth command: Proceeding Spirit, our Defence, Who do'st the gift of tongues dispence, And crown'st thy gift with eloquence! Refine and purge our earthly parts; But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts! Our frailties help, our vice control; Submit the senses to the soul; And when rebellious they are grown, Then, lay thy hand, and hold 'em down. Chase from our minds th' Infernal Foe; And peace, the fruit of love, bestow; And, lest our feet should step astray, Protect, and guide us in the way. Make us Eternal Truths receive, And practise, all that we believe: Give us thy self, that we may see The Father and the Son, by thee. Immortal honour, endless fame, Attend th' Almighty Father's name: The Saviour Son be glorified, Who for lost Man's redemption died: And equal adoration be, Eternal Paraclete, to thee.

Can life be a blessing, Or worth the possessing, Can life be a blessing if love were away? Ah no! though our love all night keep us waking, And though he torment us with cares all the day, Yet he sweetens, he sweetens our pains in the taking, There's an hour at the last, there's an hour to repay. In ev'ry possessing, The ravishing blessing, In ev'ry possessing the fruit of our pain, Poor lovers forget long ages of anguish, Whate'er they have suffer'd and done to obtain; 'Tis a pleasure, a pleasure to sigh and to languish, When we hope, when we hope to be happy again.

Excellent In The Two Sister-Arts Of POËsy And Painting: An Ode

Farewell, too little and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own; For sure our souls were near ally'd; and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine. One common note on either lyre did strike, And knaves and fools we both abhorr'd alike: To the same goal did both our studies drive, The last set out the soonest did arrive. Thus Nisus fell upon the slippery place, While his young friend perform'd and won the race. O early ripe! to thy abundant store What could advancing age have added more? It might (what nature never gives the young) Have taught the numbers of thy native tongue. But satire needs not those, and wit will shine Through the harsh cadence of a rugged line. A noble error, and but seldom made, When poets are by too much force betray'd. Thy generous fruits, though gather'd ere their prime Still show'd a quickness; and maturing time But mellows what we write to the dull sweets of rhyme. Once more, hail and farewell; farewell thou young, But ah too short, Marcellus of our tongue; Thy brows with ivy, and with laurels bound; But fate and gloomy night encompass thee around.

Of Chesterton, In the County of Huntingdon, Esquire How blessed is he, who leads a Country Life, Unvex’d with anxious Cares, and void of Strife! Who studying Peace, and shunning Civil Rage, Enjoy’d his Youth, and now enjoys his Age: All who deserve his Love, he makes his own; And, to be lov’d himself, needs only to be known. Just, Good, and Wise, contending Neighbours come From your Award to wait their final Doom; And, Foes before, return in Friendship home. Without their Cost, you terminate the Cause; And save th’ Expence of long Litigious Laws: Where Suits are travers’d; and so little won, That he who conquers, is but last undone: Such are not your Decrees; but so design’d, The Sanction leaves a lasting Peace behind; Like your own Soul, Serene; a Pattern of your Mind. Promoting Concord, and composing Strife, Lord of your self, uncumber’d with a Wife; Where, for a Year, a Month, perhaps a Night, Long Penitence succeeds a short Delight: Minds are so hardly match’d, that ev’n the first, Though pair’d by Heav’n, in Paradise, were curs’d. For Man and Woman, though in one they grow, Yet, first or last, return again to Two. He to God’s Image, She to His was made; So, farther from the Fount, the Stream at random stray’d. How cou’d He stand, when, put to double Pain, He must a Weaker than himself sustain! Each might have stood perhaps; but each alone; Two Wrestlers help to pull each other down. Not that my Verse wou’d blemish all the Fair; But yet, if some be Bad, ‘tis Wisdom to beware; And better shun the Bait, than struggle in the Snare. Thus have you shunn’d, and shun the married State, Trusting as little as you can to Fate. No porter guards the Passage of your Door; T’ admit the Wealthy, and exclude the Poor: For God, who gave the Riches, gave the Heart To sanctifie the Whole, by giving Part: Heav’n, who foresaw the Will, the Means has wrought, And to the Second Son, a Blessing brought: The First-begotten had his Father’s Share, But you, like Jacob, are Rebecca’s Heir. So may your Stores, and fruitful Fields increase; And ever be you bless’d, who live to bless. As Ceres sow’d where e’er her Chariot flew; As Heav’n in Desarts rain’d the Bread of Dew, So free to Many, to Relations most, You feed with Manna your own Israel-Host. With Crowds attended of your ancient Race, You seek the Champian-Sports, or Sylvan-Chace: With well-breath’d Beagles, you surround the Wood, Ev’n then, industrious of the Common Good: And often have you brought the wily Fox To suffer for the Firstlings of the Flocks; Chas’d ev’n amid the Folds; and made to bleed, Like Felons, where they did the murd’rous Deed. This fiery Game, your active Youth maintain’d: Not yet, by years extinguish’d, though restrain’d: You season still with Sports your serious Hours; For Age but tastes of Pleasures, Youth devours. The Hare, in Pastures or in Plains is found, Emblem of Humane Life, who runs the Round; And, after all his wand’ring Ways are done, His Circle fills, and ends where he begun, Just as the Setting meets the Rising Sun. Thus Princes ease their Cares: But happier he, Who seeks not Pleasure thro’ Necessity, Than such as once on slipp’ry Thrones were plac’d; And chasing, sigh to think themselves are chas’d. So liv’d our Sires, e’er Doctors learn’d to kill, And multiply’d with theirs, the Weekly Bill: The first Physicians by Debauch were made: Excess began, and Sloth sustains the Trade. Pity the gen’rous Kind their Cares bestow To search forbidden Truths; (a Sin to know:) To which, if Humane Science cou’d attain, The Doom of Death, pronounc’d by God, were vain. In vain the Leech wou’d interpose Delay; Fatefastensfirst, and vindicates the Prey. What Help from Arts Endeavours can we have! Guibbons but guesses, nor is sure to save: But Maurus sweeps whole Parishes, and Peoples ev’ry Grave, And no more Mercy to Mankind will use, Than when he robb’d and murder’d Maro’s Muse. Wou’dst thou be soon dispatch’d, and perish whole? Trust Maurus with thy Life, and M-lb-rne with thy Soul. By Chace our long-liv’d Fathers earned their Food; Toil strung the Nerves, and purifi’d the Blood: But we, their Sons, a pamper’d Race of Men, Are dwindl’d down to threescore Years and ten. Better to hunt in Fields, for Health unbought, Than fee the Doctor for a nauseous Draught. The Wise, for Cure, on Exercise depend; God never made his Work, for Man to mend. The Tree of Knowledge, one in Eden plac’d, Was easie found, but was forbid the Taste: O, had our Grandsire walk’d without his Wife, He first had sought the better Plant of Life! Now, both are lost: Yet, wandring in the dark, Physicians for the Tree have found the Bark They, lab’ring for Relief of Humane Kind, With sharpen’d sight some Remedies may find; Th’ Apothecary-Train is wholly blind. From Files, a Random-Recipe they take, And Many Deaths of One Prescription make. Garth, gen’rous as his Muse, prescribes and gives; The Shop-man sells; and by Destruction lives: Ungrateful Tribe! who, like the Viper’s Brood, From Med’cine issuing, suck their Mother’s Blood! Let These obey; and let the Learn’d prescribe; That Men may die, without a double Bribe: Let Them, but under their Superiours, kill; When Doctors first have sign’d the bloody Bill: He scapes the best, who Nature to repair, Draws Phisick from the Fields, in Draughts of Vital Air. You hoard not Health, for your own private use, But on the Publick spend the rich Produce. When, often urg’d, unwilling to be Great, Your Country calls you from your lov’d Retreat, And sends to Senates, charg’d with Common Care, Which none more shuns; and none can better bear. Where cou’d they find another form’d so fit, To poise, with solid Sense, a spritely Wit! Were these both wanting, (as they both abound) Where cou’d so firm Integrity be found? Well-born and Wealthy; wanting no Support, You steer betwixt the Country and the Court: Nor gratifie whate’er the Great desire, Nor grudging give, what Publick Needs require. Part must be left, a Fund when Foes invade; And Part employ’d to roll the Watry Trade; Ev’n Canaans happy Land, when worn with Toil, Requir’d a Sabbath-Year, to mend the meagre Soil. Good senators, (and such are you so give, That Kings may be supply’d, the People thrive; And He, when Want requires, is truly Wise, Who slights not Foreign Aids nor over-buys; But, on our Native Strength, in time of need, relies. Munster was bought, we boast not the Success; Who fights for Gain, for greater, makes his Peace. Our Foes, compell’d by Need have Peace embrac’d: The Peace both Parties want, is like to last: Which, if secure, securely we may trade; Or, not secure, shou’d never have been made. Safe in our selves, while on our selves we stand, The Sea is ours, and that defends the Land. Be, then, the Naval Stores the Nations Care, New Ships to build, and batter’d to repair. Observe the War in ev’ry Annual Course; What has been done, was done with British Force. Namur Subdu’d, is England’s Palm alone; The Rest Besieged; but we Constrain’d the Town: We saw th’ Event that follow’d our Success; France, though pretending Arms, pursu’d the Peace: Oblig’d, by one sole Treaty, to restore What Twenty Years of War had won before. Enough for Europe has our Albion fought: Let us enjoy the Peace our Blood has bought. When once the Persian King was put to Flight, The weary Macedons refus’d to fight: Themselves their own Mortality confess’d; And left the son of Jove, to quarrel for the rest. Ev’n Victors are by Victories undone; Thus Hannibal, with Foreign Laurels won, To Carthage was recall’d, too late to keep his own. While sore of Battel, while our Wounds are green, Why shou’d we tempt the doubtful Dye agen? In Wars renew’d, uncertain of success, Sure of a Share, as Umpires of the Peace. A Patriot, both the King and Country serves; Prerogative, and Privilege preserves: Of Each, our Laws the certain Limit show; One must not ebb, not t’ other overflow: Betwixt the Prince and Parliament we stand; The Barriers of the State on either Hand: May neither overflow, for then they drown the Land. When both are full, they feed our bless’d Abode; Like those, that water’d once, the Paradise of God. Some Overpoise of Sway, by Turns they share; In Peace the People, and the Prince in War: Consuls of mod’rate Pow’r in Calms were made; When the Gauls came, one sole Dictator sway’d. Patriots, in Peace, assert the Peoples Right, With noble Stubbornness resisting Might: No Lawless Mandates from the Court receive, Nor lend by Force; but in a Body give. Such was your gen’rous Grandsire; free to grant In Parliaments, that weigh’d their Prince’s Want: But so tenacious of the Common Cause, As not to lend the King against his Laws. And, in a lothsom Dungeon doom’d to lie, In Bonds retain’d his Birthright Liberty, And shamed Oppression, till it set him free. O true Descendent of a Patriot Line, Who, while thou shar’st their Lustre, lend’st ‘em thine, Vouchsafe this Picture of thy Soul to see; Tis so far Good as it resembles thee: The Beauties to th’ Original I owe; Which, when I miss, my own Defects I show, Nor think the Kindred-Muses thy Disgrace; A poet is not born in ev’ry Race. Two of a House, few Ages can afford; One of perform, another to record. Praise-worthy Actions are by thee embrac’d; And ‘tis my Praise, to make thy Praises last. For ev’n when Death dissolves our Humane Frame, The Soul returns to Heav’n, from whence it came; Earth keeps the Body, Verse preserves the Fame.

Well then; the promis'd hour is come at last; The present age of wit obscures the past: Strong were our sires; and as they fought they writ, Conqu'ring with force of arms, and dint of wit; Theirs was the giant race, before the Flood; And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire stood. Like Janus he the stubborn soil manur'd, With rules of husbandry the rankness cur'd: Tam'd us to manners, when the stage was rude; And boisterous English wit, with art endu'd. Our age was cultivated thus at length; But what we gained in skill we lost in strength. Our builders were, with want of genius, curst; The second temple was not like the first: Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length; Our beauties equal; but excel our strength. Firm Doric pillars found your solid base: The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space; Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace. In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise: He mov'd the mind, but had not power to raise. Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please: Yet doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease. In differing talents both adorn'd their age; One for the study, t'other for the stage. But both to Congreve justly shall submit, One match'd in judgment, both o'er-match'd in wit. In him all beauties of this age we see; Etherege's courtship, Southern's purity; The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherly. All this in blooming youth you have achiev'd; Nor are your foil'd contemporaries griev'd; So much the sweetness of your manners move, We cannot envy you because we love. Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw A beardless Consul made against the law, And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome; Though he with Hannibal was overcome. Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame; And scholar to the youth he taught, became. Oh that your brows my laurel had sustain'd, Well had I been depos'd, if you had reign'd! The father had descended for the son; For only you are lineal to the throne. Thus when the State one Edward did depose; A greater Edward in his room arose. But now, not I, but poetry is curs'd; For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first. But let 'em not mistake my patron's part; Nor call his charity their own desert. Yet this I prophesy; thou shalt be seen, (Tho' with some short parenthesis between:) High on the throne of wit; and seated there, Not mine (that's little) but thy laurel wear. Thy first attempt an early promise made; That early promise this has more than paid. So bold, yet so judiciously you dare, That your least praise, is to be regular. Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought, But genius must be born; and never can be taught. This is your portion; this your native store; Heav'n that but once was prodigal before, To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more. Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need; For 'tis impossible you should proceed. Already I am worn with cares and age; And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage: Unprofitably kept at Heav'n's expense, I live a rent-charge on his providence: But you, whom ev'ry muse and grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and oh defend, Against your judgment your departed friend! Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue; But shade those laurels which descend to you: And take for tribute what these lines express: You merit more; nor could my love do less.

From King Arthur COMUS Your hay it is mow'd, and your corn is reap'd; Your barns will be full, and your hovels heap'd: Come, my boys, come; Come, my boys, come; And merrily roar out Harvest Home. CHORUS Come, my boys, come; Come, my boys, come; And merrily roar out Harvest Home. MAN We ha' cheated the parson, we'll cheat him agen, For why should a blockhead ha' one in ten? One in ten, One in ten, For why should a blockhead ha' one in ten? For prating so long like a book-learn'd sot, Till pudding and dumplin burn to pot, Burn to pot, Burn to pot, Till pudding and dumplin burn to pot. CHORUS Burn to pot, Burn to pot, Till pudding and dumplin burn to pot. We'll toss off our ale till we canno' stand, And Hoigh for the honour of Old England: Old England, Old England, And Hoigh for the honour of Old England. CHORUS Old England, Old England, And Hoigh for the honour of Old England.

from An Evening's Love You charm'd me not with that fair face Though it was all divine: To be another's is the grace, That makes me wish you mine. The Gods and Fortune take their part Who like young monarchs fight; And boldly dare invade that heart Which is another's right. First mad with hope we undertake To pull up every bar; But once possess'd, we faintly make A dull defensive war. Now every friend is turn'd a foe In hope to get our store: And passion makes us cowards grow, Which made us brave before.

I Why should a foolish marriage vow, Which long ago was made, Oblige us to each other now, When passion is decayed? We loved, and we loved, as long as we could, Till our love was loved out in us both; But our marriage is dead, when the pleasure is fled: ’Twas pleasure first made it an oath. II If I have pleasures for a friend, And further love in store, What wrong has he, whose joys did end, And who could give no more? ’Tis a madness that he should be jealous of me, Or that I should bar him of another: For all we can gain, is to give ourselves pain, When neither can hinder the other.

Ask not the cause why sullen spring So long delays her flow'rs to bear; Why warbling birds forget to sing, And winter storms invert the year? Chloris is gone; and Fate provides To make it spring where she resides. Chloris is gone, the cruel fair; She cast not back a pitying eye: But left her lover in despair, To sigh, to languish, and to die: Ah, how can those fair eyes endure To give the wounds they will not cure! Great god of Love, why hast thou made A face that can all hearts command, That all religions can invade, And change the laws of ev'ry land? Where thou hadst plac'd such pow'r before, Thou shouldst have made her mercy more. When Chloris to the temple comes, Adoring crowds before her fall; She can restore the dead from tombs, And ev'ry life but mine recall. I only am by love design'd To be the victim for mankind.