Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE DUKE OF GUISE: EPILOGUE: 2, by JOHN DRYDEN

Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

Rhyming Dictionary Search
THE DUKE OF GUISE: EPILOGUE: 2, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Two houses joined, two poets to a play?
Last Line: But grunts, and groans, and ends at last in fumbling.
Subject(s): Plays & Playwrights ; Politics & Government; Dramatists

Two Houses join'd, two Poets to a Play?
You noisy Whigs will sure be pleas'd to-day;
It looks so like two Shrieves the City Way.
But since our Discords and Divisions cease,
You, Bilboa-gallants, learn to keep the Peace;
Make here no Tilts; let our poor Stage alone;
Or if a decent Murder must be done,
Pray take a civil Turn to Marybone.
If not, I swear we'll pull up all our Benches;
Not for your Sakes, but for our Orange-wenches:
For you thrust wide sometimes, and many a Spark,
That misses one, can hit the other Mark.
This makes our Boxes full; for men of Sense
Pay their four Shillings in their own Defence:
That safe behind the Ladies they may stay,
Peep o'er the Fan, and judge the bloody Fray.
But other Foes give Beauty worse Alarms;
The posse-poetarum's up in Arms:
No Woman's Fame their libels has escap'd;
Their Ink runs Venom, and their Pens are clapp'd.
When Sighs and Prayers their ladies cannot move,
They rail, write Treason, and turn Whigs to love.
Nay, and I fear they worse Designs advance,
There's a damn'd Love-trick new brought o'er from France.
We charm in vain, and dress, and keep a Pother,
While those false Rogues are ogling one another.
All Sins besides admit some Expiation;
But this against our Sex is plain Damnation.
They join for Libels too, these Womenhaters;
And as they club for Love, they club for Satyres:
The best on't is they hurt not: for they wear
Stings in their Tails; their only Venom's there.
'Tis true, some shot at first the Ladies hit,
Which able Marksmen made and Men of Wit:
But now the Fools give Fire, whose Bounce is louder;
And yet, like mere Train-bands, they shoot but Powder.
Libels, like Plots, sweep all in their first Fury;
Then dwindle like an ignoramus Jury:
Thus Age begins with towzing and with tumbling,
But grunts, and groans, and ends at last in fumbling.

Other Poems of Interest...

Home: PoetryExplorer.net