Dryden

Paying the bill in a Thai restaurant, I lean over to ask the two grey-haired gentlemen sitting at the adjacent table with their younger international female companions.  One's locks are curly, the other's floppy.  They eye me with machismic suspicion.  'He's got an interesting one', says the curly-haired gentleman, deflecting the question.  The floppy-haired gentleman stands up and puts on his tweed jacket.  'You look like a studious chap', he says, 'Think of a poet'.  I take the challenge.  'Chaucer?' I suggest.  He shakes his head.  I try to think through the cannon.  'Byron?  Shelley?  Dylan Thomas?'  'You're getting closer', he says, 'he liked a bar wrestle'.  'Marlowe?'  I try in desperation.  'Dryden', he tells me, 'A relation.  He's in the family tree'.  I look suitably impressed.  'My son has it too'.  I ask to be reminded of one of his most famous poems.  'No idea', comes the reply.

The gentleman accompany their lady friends to the door.

(I got out my edition of John Dryden from university.  It is not very well-thumbed.  My highlighter seems to have paid most attention to An Essay of Dramatic Poesy.  Perhaps one day I will read his lesser known comedy, The Assignation, or Love in  Nunnery.)