Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1673, by JOHN DRYDEN


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

PROLOGUE TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1673, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: What greece, when learning flourished, only knew
Last Line: But 'tis your suffrage makes authentique wit.
Subject(s): Greece; Oxford University; Plays & Playwrights ; Poetry & Poets; Writing & Writers; Greeks; Dramatists


WHAT Greece, when learning flourish'd, onely knew,
(Athenian Judges,) you this day renew.
Here too are Annual Rites to Pallas done,
And here Poetique prizes lost or won.
Methinks I see you crown'd with Olives sit,
And strike a sacred Horrour from the Pit.
A Day of Doom is this of your Decree,
Where even the Best are but by Mercy free:
A Day which none but Johnson durst have wish'd to see.
Here they who long have known the usefull Stage
Come to be taught themselves to teach the Age.
As your Commissioners our Poets go,
To cultivate the Virtue which you sow;
In your Lycaeum first themselves refin'd,
And delegated thence to Humane kind.
But as Embassadours, when long from home,
For new Instructions to their Princes come;
So Poets who your Precepts have forgot,
Return, and beg they may be better taught:
Follies and Faults else-where by them are shown,
But by your Manners they correct their own.
Th' illiterate Writer, Emperique like, applies
To Minds diseas'd, unsafe, chance Remedies:
The Learn'd in Schools, where Knowledge first began,
Studies with Care th' Anatomy of Man;
Sees Vertue, Vice, and Passions in their Cause,
And Fame from Science, not from Fortune, draws.
So Poetry, which is in Oxford made
An Art, in London onely is a Trade.
There haughty Dunces, whose unlearned Pen
Could ne'er spell Grammar, would be reading Men.
Such build their Poems the Lucretian way;
So many Huddled Atoms make a Play,
And if they hit in Order by some Chance,
They call that Nature which is Ignorance.
To such a Fame let mere Town-Wits aspire,
And their gay Nonsense their own Citts admire.
Our Poet, could he find Forgiveness here,
Would wish it rather than a Plaudit there.
He owns no Crown from those Praetorian Bands,
But knows that Right is in this Senates Hands.
Not impudent enough to hope your Praise,
Low at the Muses Feet, his Wreath he lays,
And, where he took it up, resigns his Bays.
Kings make their Poets whom themselves think fit.
But 'tis your Suffrage makes Authentique Wit.





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