Look on me kindly, and some pity shew, Ev'n to a bee to buzz within your bow'r, 30 And folded fern, that your fair forehead shade. Now to my cost the force of Love I find; The heavy hand he bears on humankind. The milk of tigers was his infant food, Taught from his tender years the taste of blood; His brother whelps and he ran wild about the wood. Ah nymph, train'd up in his tyrannic court, To make the suff'rings of your slaves your sport! Unheeded ruin! treacherous delight! O polish'd hardness, soften'd to the sight! 40 Whose radiant eyes your ebon brows adorn, Like midnight those, and these like break of morn! Smile once again, revive me with your charms; And let me die contented in your arms. Threw down a golden apple in her way; For all her haste she could not choose but stay. Renown said: "Run;" the glitt❜ring bribe cried: "Hold;" The man might have been hang'd, but for his gold. Yet some suppose 't was love (some few indeed) That stopp'd the fatal fury of her speed: She saw, she sigh'd; her nimble feet refuse Their wonted speed, and she took pains to lose. 100 A prophet some, and some a poet cry, (No matter which, so neither of them lie,) SPOKEN BY MR. BETTERTON [This play, by Southerne, was acted and printed in 1684; it is noted in the Term Catalogue for Trinity Term (June) of that year. The prologue was reprinted in the third edition, 1702, of Miscellany Poems, the First Purt, with the heading, A Prologue, spoken by Mr. Betterton, written by Mr. Dryden. The present text follows that printed with the play in 1684. On the epilogue to the same play, see Appendix I, p. 920, below.] How comes it, gentlemen, that nowadays, When all of you so shrewdly judge of plays, Our poets tax you still with want of sense? All prologues treat you at your own ex pense. Sharp citizens a wiser way can go; ΤΟ Our author, young, and grateful in his nature, Vows that from him no nymph deserves a satire; Nor will he ever draw I mean his rhyme, [This tragedy, by Lee, was first printed in 1684. The epilogue is not assigned to Dryden in this edition or in the early collected editions of Lee's works. It appears, however, in the third edition, 1702, of Miscellany Poems, the First Part, with the words, written by Mr. Dryden," after the title. The present text follows that printed with the play in 1684.] OUR hero's happy in the play's conclusion; The holy rogue at last has met confusion: Eusebius (for you know I read Greek authors) Reports that, after all these plots and slaughters, The court of Constantine was full of glory, And every Trimmer turn'd Addressing Tory. They follow'd him in herds as they were TO THE EARL OF ROSCOMMON, ON HIS EXCELLENT ESSAY ON TRANSLATED VERSE [An Essay on Translated Verse, by Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon, was first published in 1684; a second edition, "corrected and enlarged," appeared the next year. Dryden's poem is prefixed to both editions; in the second it is slightly revised. Dryden several times refers to Roscommon with warm admiration: see his Preface to Ovid's Epistles (p. 90, above), his Preface to Sylva (pp. 176, 178, 179, below), and his Dedication of the Eneïs (p. 514, below). In 1683 Roscommon prefixed a complimentary poem to the third issue of Religio Laici. The present text follows the second edition.] WHETHER the fruitful Nile, or Tyrian shore, The seeds of arts and infant science bore, 'Tis sure the noble plant, translated first, Advanc'd its head in Grecian gardens nurs'd. The Grecians added verse; their tuneful tongue Made nature first and nature's God their His own example is a flame so bright, Scarce his own Horace could such rules ordain, 40 Or his own Virgil sing a nobler strain. Their island in revenge has ours reclaim'd; The more instructed we, the more we still are sham'd. 'Tis well for us his generous blood did flow, Deriv'd from British channels long ago; That here his conquering ancestors were nurs'd, And Ireland but translated England first: |