Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, AMPHITYRON, OR THE TWO SOSIAS: PROLOGUE, by JOHN DRYDEN


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

AMPHITYRON, OR THE TWO SOSIAS: PROLOGUE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: The laboring bee, when his sharp sting is gone
Last Line: To make fine fools of you, and all your parts.
Subject(s): Bees; Fame; Insects; Plays & Playwrights ; Theater & Theaters; Beekeeping; Reputation; Bugs; Dramatists; Stage Life


THE lab'ring Bee, when his sharp Sting is gone,
Forgets his golden Work, and turns a Drone:
Such is a Satyr, when you take away
That Rage in which his Noble Vigour lay.
What gain you, by not suffering him to teize ye?
He neither can offend you now, nor please ye.
The Honey-Bag and Venome lay so near,
That both, together, you resolv'd to tear;
And lost your Pleasure, to secure your Fear.
How can he show his Manhood, if you bind him
To box, like Boys, with one hand ty'd behind him?
This is plain Levelling of Wit; in which
The Poor has all th' advantage, not the Rich.
The Blockhead stands excus'd, for wanting Sense;
And Wits turn Blockheads in their own defence.
Yet, though the Stages Traffick is undone,
Still Julian's interloping Trade goes on:
Though Satyr on the Theatre you smother,
Yet in Lampoons, you Libel one another.
The first produces still, a second Jig;
You whip 'em out, like School-boys, till they gig:
And, with the same Success, we Readers guess,
For ev'ry one still dwindles to a less;
And much good Malice is so meanly drest,
That we wou'd laugh, but cannot find the Jest.
If no Advice your Rhiming Rage can stay,
Let not the Ladies suffer in the Fray.
Their tender Sex is priviledg'd from War;
'Tis not like Knights, to draw upon the Fair.
What Fame expect you from so mean a Prize?
We wear no murd'ring Weapons, but our Eyes.
Our Sex, you know, was after yours design'd;
The last Perfection of the Makers Mind;
Heav'n drew out all the Gold for us, and left your Dross behind.
Beauty, for Valours best Reward, He chose;
Peace, after War; and after Toil, Repose.
Hence, ye Prophane, excluded from our sights;
And, charm'd by Day, with Honour's vain delights,
Go, make your best of solitary Nights.
Recant betimes, 'tis prudence to submit;
Our Sex is still your Overmatch in Wit:
We never fail, with new, successful Arts,
To make fine Fools of you, and all your Parts.





Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!


Other Poems of Interest...
Home: PoetryExplorer.net