John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester

Then talk not of Inconstancy, False Hearts, and broken Vows; If I, by Miracle, can be This live-long Minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heav'n allows.

Farewell, woman! I intend Henceforth every night to sit With my lewd, well-natured friend, Drinking to engender wit.

Love a woman? You're an ass! 'Tis a most insipid passion To choose out for your happiness The silliest part of God's creation.

See the kind seed-receiving earth To every grain affords a birth: On her no showers unwelcome fall, Her willing womb retains 'em all, And shall my Caelia be confined? No, live up to thy mighty mind,

Great Negative, how vainly would the Wise Enquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise, Didst thou not stand to point their dull Philosophies?Is, or is not, the Two great Ends of Fate, And, true or false, the Subject of Debate, That …

Dead, we become the lumber of the world.

Thus, Statesman-like, I'll saucily impose, And, safe from Danger, valiantly advise; Sheltered in Impotence, urge you to Blows, And, being good for nothing else, be Wise.

So, when my Days of Impotence approach, And I'm by Pox and Wine's unlucky chance Driv'n from the pleasing Billows of debauch On the dull Shore of lazy Temperance;My Pains at least some Respite shall afford While I behold the Battles you …

Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame, False to my passion, fatal to my fame, Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms, I filled with love, and she all over charms; Both equally inspired with eager fire, Melting through kindness, flaming in desire. With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace.

But cowards shall forget to rant, Schoolboys to frig, old whores to paint; The Jesuits’ fraternity Shall leave the use of buggery; Crab-louse, inspired with grace divine, From earthly cod to heaven shall climb;

Such nat’ral freedoms are but just: There’s something gen’rous in mere lust. But to turn a damn’d abandon’d jade When neither head nor tail persuade; To be a whore in understanding, A passive pot for fools to spend in!

So a proud bitch does lead about Of humble curs the amorous rout, Who most obsequiously do hunt The sav’ry scent of salt-swol'n cunt.

But mark what creatures women are: How infinitely vile, when fair!

Much wine had past, with grave discourse, Of who fucks who, and who does worse.

There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name, So foolish, and so false, as common fame.

The world appears like a great family, Whose lord, oppressed with pride and poverty, (That to the few great bounty he may show) Is fain to starve the numerous train below.

Most Men are Cowards, all Men should be Knaves. The Difference lies, as far as I can see, Not in the thing it self, but the Degree.

For all Men would be Cowards if they durst: And Honesty's against all common Sense.

For Wits are treated just like Common Whores; First they're enjoy'd, and then kickt out of Doors.

Then Old Age, and Experience, hand in hand, Lead him to death, and make him understand, After a Search so painful, and so long, That all his Life he has been in the wrong.

Whilst the misguided Follower climbs with Pain, Mountains of Whimsies, heapt in his own Brain, Stumbling from Thought to Thought, falls headlong down Into Doubt's boundless Sea, where like to drown, Books bear him up a-while, and make him …

Reason, an Ignis fatuus of the Mind, Which leaves the light of Nature, Sense, behind.

Were I, who to my Cost already am One of those strange, prodigious Creatures Man, A Spirit free, to choose for my own Share, What sort of Flesh and Blood I pleas'd to wear, I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear, Or any thing, but that vain …