Subscribe for ad free access & additional features for teachers. Authors: 267, Books: 3,607, Poems & Short Stories: 4,435, Forum Members: 71,154, Forum Posts: 1,238,602, Quizzes: 344



The Wild Gallant has quite played out his game;
He's married now, and that will make him tame;
Or if you think marriage will not reclaim him,
The critics swear they'll damn him, but they'll tame him.
Yet, though our poet's threatened most by these,
They are the only people he can please:
For he, to humour them, has shown to-day,
That which they only like, a wretched play:
But though his play be ill, here have been shown
The greatest wits, and beauties of the town;
And his occasion having brought you here,
You are too grateful to become severe.
There is not any person here so mean,
But he may freely judge each act and scene:
But if you bid him chuse his judges, then,
He boldly names true English gentlemen:
For he ne'er thought a handsome garb or dress
So great a crime, to make their judgment less:
And with these gallants he these ladies joins,
To judge that language, their converse refines.
But if their censures should condemn his play,
Far from disputing, he does only pray
He may Leander's destiny obtain:
Now spare him, drown him when he comes again.



Of all dramatic writing, comic wit, As 'tis the best, so 'tis most, hard to hit. For it lies all in level to the eye, Where all may judge, and each defect may spy. Humour is that, which every day we meet, And therefore known as every public street; In which, if e'er the poet go astray, You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way. But, what's so common, to make pleasant too, Is more than any wit can always do. For 'tis like Turks, with hen and rice to treat; To make regalios out of common meat. But, in your diet, you grow savages: Nothing but human flesh your taste can please; And, as their feasts with slaughtered slaves began, So you, at each new play, must have a man. Hither you come, as to see prizes fought; If no blood's drawn, you cry, the prize is naught. But fools grow wary now; and, when they see A poet eyeing round the company, Straight each-man for himself begins to doubt; They shrink like seamen when a press comes out. Few of them will be found for public use, Except you charge an oaf upon each house, Like the train bands, and every man engage For a sufficient fool, to serve the stage. And when, with much ado, you get him there, Where he in all his glory should appear, Your poets make him such rare things to say, That he's more wit than any man i' th' play: But of so ill a mingle with the rest, As when a parrot's taught to break a jest. Thus, aiming to be fine, they make a show, As tawdry squires in country churches do. Things well considered, 'tis so hard to make A comedy, which should the knowing take, That our dull poet, in despair to please, Does humbly beg, by me, his writ of ease. 'Tis a land-tax, which he's too poor to pay; You therefore must some other impost lay. Would you but change, for serious plot and verse, This motely garniture of fool and farce, Nor scorn a mode, because 'tis taught at home, Which does, like vests, our gravity become, Our poet yields you should this play refuse: As tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose, With some content, their fripperies of France, In hope it may their staple trade advance.

John Dryden

Sorry, no summary available yet.