The Poetical Works of John Dryden, Vol II | Page 9

the Lady
Hen. Mar. Wentworth, when "Calista" was acted at Court
XVII. Prologue to "Aurenzebe"
XVIII. Epilogue to "The Man of Mode; or, Sir Fopling Flutter"
XIX. Epilogue to "All for Love"
XX. Prologue to "Limberham"

XXI. Epilogue to "Mithridates, King of Pontus"
XXII. Prologue to "Oedipus"
XXIII. Epilogue to "Oedipus"
XXIV. Prologue to "Troilus and Cressida"
XXV. Prologue to "Cæsar Borgia"
XXVI. Prologue to "Sophonisba"
XXVII. Prologue to "The Royal General"
XXVIII. Prologue to "The University of Oxford," 1681
XXIX. Prologue to his Royal Highness, upon his first appearance
at the Duke's Theatre, after his return from
Scotland, 1682
XXX. Prologue to "The Earl of Essex; or, the Unhappy
Favourite"
XXXI. Epilogue for "The King's House"
XXXII. Prologue to "The Loyal Brother; or, the Persian
Prince".
XXXIII. Prologue to "The King and Queen"
XXXIV. Prologue to the University of Oxford
XXXV. Epilogue
XXXVI. Epilogue spoken at Oxford by Mrs Marshall
XXXVII. Prologue to the University of Oxford

XXXVIII. Prologue to the University of Oxford
XXXIX. Prologue to "Albion and Albanins"
XL. Epilogue to "Albion and Albanius"
XLI. Prologue to "Aviragus and Philicia Revived"
XLII. Prologue to "Don Sebastian"
XLIII. Prologue to "The Prophetess"
XLIV. Prologue to "The Mistakes"
XLV. Prologue to "King Arthur"
XLVI. Prologue to "Albumazar"
XLVII. An Epilogue
XLVIII. Prologue to "The Husband his own Cuckold"
XLIX. Prologue to "The Pilgrim"
L. Epilogue to "The Pilgrim"
TALES FROM CHAUCER.
To her Grace the Duchess of Ormond
Palamon and Arcite; or, the Knight's Tale
The Cock and the Fox; or, the Tale of the Nun's Priest
The Flower and the Leaf; or, the Lady in the Arbour: a Vision
The Wife of Bath, her Tale
The Character of a good Parson

DRYDEN'S POEMS.
EPISTLES.
EPISTLE I.
TO MY HONOURED FRIEND SIR ROBERT HOWARD,[1] ON
HIS EXCELLENT POEMS.
As there is music uninform'd by art
In those wild notes, which, with a
merry heart,
The birds in unfrequented shades express,
Who, better
taught at home, yet please us less:
So in your verse a native sweetness
dwells,
Which shames composure, and its art excels.
Singing no
more can your soft numbers grace,
Than paint adds charms unto a
beauteous face.
Yet as, when mighty rivers gently creep,
Their even
calmness does suppose them deep; 10 Such is your muse: no metaphor
swell'd high
With dangerous boldness lifts her to the sky:
Those
mounting fancies, when they fall again,
Show sand and dirt at bottom
do remain.
So firm a strength, and yet withal so sweet,
Did never
but in Samson's riddle meet.
'Tis strange each line so great a weight
should bear,
And yet no sign of toil, no sweat appear.
Either your
art hides art, as Stoics feign
Then least to feel when most they suffer
pain; 20 And we, dull souls, admire, but cannot see
What hidden
springs within the engine be:
Or 'tis some happiness that still pursues

Each act and motion of your graceful muse.
Or is it fortune's work,
that in your head
The curious net,[2] that is for fancies spread,
Lets
through its meshes every meaner thought,
While rich ideas there are
only caught?
Sure that's not all; this is a piece too fair
To be the
child of chance, and not of care. 30 No atoms casually together hurl'd

Could e'er produce so beautiful a world.
Nor dare I such a doctrine
here admit,
As would destroy the providence of wit.
'Tis your
strong genius, then, which does not feel
Those weights would make a
weaker spirit reel.
To carry weight, and run so lightly too,
Is what
alone your Pegasus can do.

Great Hercules himself could ne'er do

more,
Than not to feel those heavens and gods he bore. 40 Your
easier odes, which for delight were penn'd,
Yet our instruction make
their second end:
We're both enrich'd and pleased, like them that woo

At once a beauty and a fortune too.
Of moral knowledge poesy was
queen,
And still she might, had wanton wits not been;
Who, like ill
guardians, lived themselves at large,
And, not content with that,
debauch'd their charge.
Like some brave captain, your successful pen

Restores the exiled to her crown again: 50 And gives us hope, that
having seen the days
When nothing flourish'd but fanatic bays,
All
will at length in this opinion rest,--
"A sober prince's government is
best."
This is not all: your art the way has found
To make the
improvement of the richest ground;
That soil which those immortal
laurels bore,
That once the sacred Maro's temples wore.
Eliza's
griefs are so express'd by you,
They are too eloquent to have been
true. 60 Had she so spoke, Æneas had obey'd
What Dido, rather than
what Jove had said.
If funeral rites can give a ghost repose,
Your
Muse so justly has discharged those;
Eliza's shade may now its
wandering cease,
And claim a title to the fields of peace.
But if
Æneas be obliged, no less
Your kindness great Achilles doth confess;

Who, dress'd by Statius[3] in too bold a look,
Did ill become those
virgin robes he took. 70 To understand how much we owe to you,
We
must your numbers, with your author's, view:
Then we shall