John Dryden
Absalom And Achitophel
In pious times, ere priest-craft did begin, Before polygamy was made a sin; When man, on many, multipli’d his kind, Ere one to one was cursedly confin’d: When Nature prompted, and no Law deni’d
Heroic Stanzas
Consecrated to the Glorious Memory of His Most Serene and Renowned Highness, Oliver, Late Lord Protector of This Commonwealth, etc. (Oliver Cromwell) Written After the Celebration of his Funeral 1 And now ’tis time;
Veni, Creator Spiritus
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
Religio Laici
Dim, as the borrow’d beams of moon and stars To lonely, weary, wand’ring travellers, Is reason to the soul; and as on high, Those rolling fires discover but the sky Not light us here;
The Medal
Of all our antic sights and pageantry Which English idiots run in crowds to see, The Polish Medal bears the prize alone; A monster, more the favourite of the town Than either fairs or
Song For Saint Cecilia's Day, 1687
From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony This universal frame began: When nature underneath a heap Of jarring atoms lay And could not heave her head, The tuneful voice was heard from high, Arise, ye more
Song To A Fair Young Lady Going Out Of Town In The Spring
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
Song (Sylvia The Fair, In The Bloom Of Fifteen)
Sylvia the fair, in the bloom of fifteen, Felt an innocent warmth as she lay on the green: She had heard of a pleasure, and something she guessed By the towsing and tumbling and
Ode
To the Pious Memory of the Accomplished Young Lady, Mrs Anne Killigrew, Excellent in the Two Sister-arts of Poesy and Painting Thou youngest Virgin Daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of
A Song From The Italian
(LIMBERHAM: OR, THE KIND KEEPER) By a dismal cypress lying, Damon cried, all pale and dying, Kind is death that ends my pain, But cruel she I lov’d in vain. The mossy fountains Murmur
To My Dear Friend Mr. Congreve On His Commedy Call'd The Double Dealer
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
Song From Amphitryon
Air Iris I love, and hourly I die, But not for a lip, nor a languishing eye: She’s fickle and false, and there we agree, For I am as false and as fickle as
Why Should A Foolish Marriage Vow
Why should a foolish marriage vow, Which long ago was made, Oblige us to each other now When passion is decay’d? We lov’d, and we lov’d, as long as we could, Till our love
An Ode, On The Death Of Mr. Henry Purcell
Late Servant to his Majesty, and Organist of the Chapel Royal, and Of St. Peter’s Westminster I Mark how the Lark and Linnet Sing, With rival Notes They strain their warbling Throats, To welcome
Song From Marriage-A-La-Mode
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
Alexander's Feast; Or, The Power Of Music
‘Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip’s warlike son – Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate On his imperial throne; His valiant peers were placed around, Their brows with
Mac Flecknoe
All human things are subject to decay, And, when Fate summons, monarchs must obey: This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young Was call’d to empire, and had govern’d long: In prose and verse, was
Farewell, Ungrateful Traitor!
Farewell, ungrateful traitor! Farewell, my perjur’d swain! Let never injur’d woman Believe a man again. The pleasure of possessing Surpasses all expressing, But ’tis too short a blessing, And love too long a pain.
Song From An Evening's Love
After the pangs of a desperate lover, When day and night I have sighed all in vain, Ah, what a pleasure it is to discover In her eyes pity, who causes my pain! When
Hidden Flame
Feed a flame within, which so torments me That it both pains my heart, and yet contains me: ‘Tis such a pleasing smart, and I so love it, That I had rather die than
To The Pious Memory Of The Accomplished Young Lady Mrs. Anne Killigrew
Thou youngest virgin-daughter of the skies, Made in the last promotion of the Blest; Whose palms, new pluck’d from Paradise, In spreading branches more sublimely rise, Rich with immortal green above the rest: Whether,
Happy The Man
Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call today his own: He who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today. Be fair or foul or
To The Memory Of Mr Oldham
Farewell, too little and too lately known, Whom I began to think and call my own; For sure our souls were near allied, and thine Cast in the same poetic mould with mine. One
Troilus And Cressida
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
Your Hay It Is Mow'd, And Your Corn Is Reap'd
(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.