Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CLEOMENS, OR THE SPARTAN HERO: PROLOGUE, by JOHN DRYDEN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CLEOMENS, OR THE SPARTAN HERO: PROLOGUE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: I think, or hope at least, the coast is clear
Last Line: But to make wits of fools is past your pow'r.
Subject(s): Fools; Ireland; Sparta, Greece; Idiots; Irish


I THINK, or hope at least, the Coast is clear;
That none but Men of Wit and Sense are here;
That our Bear-Garden Friends are all away,
Who bounce with Hands and Feet, and cry, Play, Play,
Who, to save Coach-Hire, trudge along the Street,
Then print our matted Seats with dirty Feet;
Who, while we speak, make Love to Orange-Wenches,
And between Acts stand strutting on the Benches;
Where got a Cock-horse, making vile Grimaces,
They to the Boxes show their Booby Faces.
A Merry-Andrew such a Mob will serve,
And treat 'em with such Wit as they deserve:
Let 'em go people Ireland, where there's need
Of such new Planters, to repair the Breed;
Or to Virginia or Jamaica steer,
But have a Care of some French Privateer;
For, if they should become the Prize of Battle,
They'll take 'em, black and white, for Irish Cattle.
Arise, true Judges, in your own Defence,
Controul those Foplings, and declare for Sense:
For, should the Fools prevail, they stop not there,
But make their next Descent upon the Fair.
Then rise, ye Fair; for it concerns you most,
That Fools no longer should your Favours boast:
'Tis time you should renounce 'em, for we find
They plead a senseless Claim to Woman-kind:
Such Squires are only fit for Country-Towns,
To stink of Ale and dust a Stand with Clowns;
Who, to be chosen for the Land's Protectors,
Tope and get drunk before their wise Electors.
Let not Farce-Lovers your weak Choice upbraid,
But turn 'em over to the Chamber-maid.
Or, if they come to see our Tragick Scenes,
Instruct them what a Spartan Heroe means:
Teach 'em how manly Passions ought to move,
For such as cannot Think can never Love;
And, since they needs will judge the Poet's Art,
Point 'em with Fescu's to each shining part.
Our Author hopes in you; but still in Pain,
He fears your Charms will be employ'd in vain.
You can make Fools of Wits, we find each Hour;
But to make Wits of Fools is past your Pow'r.





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