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


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
Page 1 of 212