Happy Birthday, John Dryden

Kneller, John Dryden, 1703

VENI, CREATOR SPIRITUS

Creator Spirit, by whose aid

The world's foundations first were laid,

Come, visit ev'ry pious mind;

Come, pour thy joys on human kind;

From sin, and sorrow set us free;

And make thy temples worthy Thee.

O, Source of uncreated Light,

The Father's promis'd Paraclete!

Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire,

Our hearts with heav'nly love inspire;

Come, and thy Sacred Unction bring

To sanctify us, while we sing!

Plenteous of grace, descend from high,

Rich in thy sev'n-fold energy!

Thou strength of his Almighty Hand,

Whose pow'r does heav'n and earth command:

Proceeding Spirit, our Defence,

Who do'st the gift of tongues dispence,

And crown'st thy gift with eloquence!

Refine and purge our earthly parts;

But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts!

Our frailties help, our vice control;

Submit the senses to the soul;

And when rebellious they are grown,

Then, lay thy hand, and hold 'em down.

Chase from our minds th' Infernal Foe;

And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;

And, lest our feet should step astray,

Protect, and guide us in the way.

Make us Eternal Truths receive,

And practise, all that we believe:

Give us thy self, that we may see

The Father and the Son, by thee.

Immortal honour, endless fame,

Attend th' Almighty Father's name:

The Saviour Son be glorified,

Who for lost Man's redemption died:

And equal adoration be,

Eternal Paraclete, to thee.

John Dryden, born on this day in 1631

Happy Birthday, Dryden

Richardson, John Dryden, 1730

VENI, CREATOR SPIRITUS

Creator Spirit, by whose aid

The world's foundations first were laid,

Come, visit ev'ry pious mind;

Come, pour thy joys on human kind;

From sin, and sorrow set us free;

And make thy temples worthy Thee.

O, Source of uncreated Light,

The Father's promis'd Paraclete!

Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire,

Our hearts with heav'nly love inspire;

Come, and thy Sacred Unction bring

To sanctify us, while we sing!

Plenteous of grace, descend from high,

Rich in thy sev'n-fold energy!

Thou strength of his Almighty Hand,

Whose pow'r does heav'n and earth command:

Proceeding Spirit, our Defence,

Who do'st the gift of tongues dispence,

And crown'st thy gift with eloquence!

Refine and purge our earthly parts;

But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts!

Our frailties help, our vice control;

Submit the senses to the soul;

And when rebellious they are grown,

Then, lay thy hand, and hold 'em down.

Chase from our minds th' Infernal Foe;

And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;

And, lest our feet should step astray,

Protect, and guide us in the way.

Make us Eternal Truths receive,

And practise, all that we believe:

Give us thy self, that we may see

The Father and the Son, by thee.

Immortal honour, endless fame,

Attend th' Almighty Father's name:

The Saviour Son be glorified,

Who for lost Man's redemption died:

And equal adoration be,

Eternal Paraclete, to thee.

John Dryden, born on this day in 1631

Happy Birthday, Dryden

Richardson, John Dryden, 1733

EPILOGUE to CONSTANTINE the GREAT

Our hero's happy in the play's conclusion,

The holy rogue at last has met confusion:

Though Arius all along appeared a saint,

The last act showed him a True Protestant.

Eusebius (for you know I read Greek authors)

Reports that after all these plots and slaughters

The court of Constantine was full of glory,

And every Trimmer turned addressing Tory;

They followed him in herds as they were mad:

When Clause was king, then all the world was glad.

Whigs kept the places they possessed before,

And most were in a way of getting more;

Which was as much as saying, gentlemen,

Here's power and money to be rogues again.

Indeed, there were a sort of peaking tools,

Some call them modest, but I call 'em fools,

Men much more loyal, though not half so loud;

But these poor devils were cast behind the crowd.

For bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense,

But good men starve for want of impudence.

Besides all these, there were a sort of wights

(I think my author calls them Teckelites),

Such hearty rogues against the King and laws,

They favoured ev'n a foreign rebel's cause;

When their own damned design was quashed and awed,

At least they gave it their good word abroad:

As many a man who, for a quiet life,

Breeds out his bastard not to nose his wife.

Thus o'er their darling plot these Trimmers cry

And though they cannot keep it in their eye,

They bind it prentice to Count Teckely.

They believe not the last plot; may I be cursed

If I believe they e'er believed the first;

No wonder their own plot no plot they think —

The man that makes it never smells the stink.

And, now it comes into my head, I'll tell

Why these damned Trimmers loved the Turks so well.

Th' orig'nal Trimmer, though a friend to no man,

Yet in his heart adored a pretty woman:

He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever

Kind black-eyed rogues for every true believer;

And, which was more than mortal man e'er tasted,

One pleasure that for threescore twelve-months lasted.

To turn for this may surely be forgiven:

Who'd not be circumcised for such a heaven!

John Dryden, born on this day in 1631

Happy Birthday, Dryden

Kneller, John Dryden, 1697

Calm was the even, and clear was the sky,

      And the new budding flowers did spring,

When all alone went Amyntas and I

      To hear the sweet nightingale sing;

I sate, and he laid him down by me;

      But scarcely his breath he could draw;

For when with a fear, he began to draw near,

      He was dash'd with A ha ha ha ha!

He blush'd to himself, and lay still for a while,

      And his modesty curb'd his desire;

But straight I convinc'd all his fear with a smile,

      Which added new flames to his fire.

O Silvia, said he, you are cruel,

      To keep your poor lover in awe;

Then once more he press'd with his hand to my breast,

      But was dash'd with A ha ha ha ha!

I knew 'twas his passion that caus'd all his fear;

      And therefore I pitied his case:

I whisper'd him softly, there's nobody near,

      And laid my cheek close to his face:

But as he grew bolder and bolder,

      A shepherd came by us and saw;

And just as our bliss we began with a kiss,

      He laugh'd out with A ha ha ha ha!

John Dryden, born on this day in 1631

Pleasure.

Beware the fury of a patient man.

There is a pleasure sure in being mad which none but madmen know.

John Dryden

Happy Birthday, Dryden

Kneller, John Dryden, 1668

John Dryden was born on this date in 1631.

VENI, CREATOR SPITITUS

Creator Spirit, by whose aid
The world's foundations first were laid,
Come, visit ev'ry pious mind;
Come, pour thy joys on human kind;
From sin, and sorrow set us free;
And make thy temples worthy Thee.

O, Source of uncreated Light,
The Father's promis'd Paraclete!
Thrice Holy Fount, thrice Holy Fire,
Our hearts with heav'nly love inspire;
Come, and thy Sacred Unction bring
To sanctify us, while we sing!

Plenteous of grace, descend from high,
Rich in thy sev'n-fold energy!
Thou strength of his Almighty Hand,
Whose pow'r does heav'n and earth command:
Proceeding Spirit, our Defence,
Who do'st the gift of tongues dispence,
And crown'st thy gift with eloquence!

Refine and purge our earthly parts;
But, oh, inflame and fire our hearts!
Our frailties help, our vice control;
Submit the senses to the soul;
And when rebellious they are grown,
Then, lay thy hand, and hold 'em down.

Chase from our minds th' Infernal Foe;
And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;
And, lest our feet should step astray,
Protect, and guide us in the way.

Make us Eternal Truths receive,
And practise, all that we believe:
Give us thy self, that we may see
The Father and the Son, by thee.

Immortal honour, endless fame,
Attend th' Almighty Father's name:
The Saviour Son be glorified,
Who for lost Man's redemption died:
And equal adoration be,
Eternal Paraclete, to thee.

John Dryden

Happy birthday, Dryden.

Kneller, John Dryden, 1703

John Dryden was born on this day in 1631.

SONG

Ah, fading joy, how quickly art thou past!

     Yet we thy ruin haste.

As if the cares of human life were few,

     We seek out new:

And follow fate, which would too fast pursue.

See how on every bough the birds express

     In their sweet notes their happiness.

     They all enjoy and nothing spare;

But on their mother nature lay their care.

Why then should man, the lord of all below,

     Such troubles choose to know

As none of all his subjects undergo?

Hark, hark, the waters fall, fall, fall,

     And with a murmuring sound

     Dash, dash upon the ground,

To gentle slumbers call.

John Dryden

Impudence.

Bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense,
But good men starve for want of impudence.

John Dryden

Madness.