The Poetical Works of John Dryden, Volume 1 With Life, Critical Dissertation, and Explanatory Notes

The Poetical Works of John Dryden #1

by John Dryden

This book was converted from its physical edition to the digital format by a community of volunteers. You may find it for free on the web. Purchase of the Kindle edition includes wireless delivery.

Genres: Poetry, Classics

646 pages, Kindle Edition

First published January 1, 1893

About the author

Librarian Note: There is more than one author in the GoodReads database with this name. See this thread for more information.

John Dryden was an English poet, literary critic, translator, and playwright who was made Poet Laureate in 1668. He is seen as dominating the literary life of Restoration England to such a point that the period came to be known in literary circles as the Age of Dryden. Walter Scott called him "Glorious John."

Reviews

[Kai Weber · Rating 2 out of 5]

I feel that panegyric is the most boring literary genre, and Dryden's long-form poems in praise of British kings are no exception to this rule. His literary treatments of religious topics ("Absalom and Achitophel", "Religio laici"), though also strongly related with the political climate of his era, are a bit more interesting. At least we get some statements from somewhere halfway between commonplace and wisdom, like "[...] for it is a madness to be sober alone, while the nation continues drunk[.]" or "A man is to be cheated into passion, but to be reasoned into truth."

[Jad Wannous · Rating 3 out of 5]

Night came, but without darkness or repose, (a)
A dismal picture of the gen'ral doom: (b)
Where Souls distracted when the Trumpet blows, (a)
And half unready with their bodies come. (b)

Those who have homes, when home they do repair, (c)
To a last lodging call their wand'ring friends. (d)
Their short uneasie sleeps are broke with care, (c)
To look how near their own destruction tends. (d)
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While by the motion of the flames they ghess
What streets are burning now, & what are near:
An Infant, waking, to the paps would press,
And meets, instead of milk, a falling tear.

- Iambic Pentameter
- Neoclassicism