John Wilmot (1647 – 1680)
English nobleman, a friend of King Charles II of England, and the writer of much satirical and bawdy poetry.
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.
If you have a grateful heart (which is a miracle amongst you statesmen), show it by directing the bearer to the best wine in town, and pray let not this highest point of sacred friendship be performed slightly, but go about it with all due deliberation and care, as holy priests to sacrifice, or as discreet thieves to the wary performance of burglary and shop-lifting. Let your well-discerning palate (the best judge about you) travel from cellar to cellar and then from piece to piece till it has lighted on wine fit for its noble choice and my approbation.
For pointed satire I would Buckhurst choose,
The best good man with the worst-natured muse.
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.
The clog of all pleasure, the luggage of life,
Is the best can be said for a very good wife.
Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,
I fall on some base heart unblest,
Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven,
And lose my everlasting rest.
When my young master's worship comes to town,
From pedagogue and mother just fit free,
The heir and hopes of a great famiiy;
Who with strong beer and beef the country rules,
And ever since the Conquest have been fools;
And now, with careful prospect to maintain
This character, lest crossing of the strain
Should mend the booby breed, his friends provide
A cousin of his own to be his bride…
It is a good world to live in,
To lend, or to spend, or to give in;
But to beg or to borrow, or to get a man's own,
It is the very worst world that ever was known.
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.
The Elephant is never won with Anger,
Nor must that man, who would reclaim a Lion,
Take him by the teeth.
Dead we become the lumber of the world.
But a meek humble Man of modest Sense,
Who, Preaching Peace, does practice Continence;
Whose pious life’s a proof he does believe,
Mysterious Truths, which no Man can conceive.
If upon Earth there dwell such God-like Men,
I'll here Recant my Paradox to them;
Adore those Shrines of Virtue, homage pay,
And, with the rabble world, their Laws obey.
If such there are, yet grant me This at least,
Man differs more from Man, than Man from Beast.
Angels listen when she speaks:
She ’s my delight, all mankind’s wonder;
But my jealous heart would break
Should we live one day asunder.
On thy wither’d lips and dry,
Which like barren furrows lie,
Brooding kisses I will pour,
Shall thy youthful heart restore.
(Such kind showers in autumn fall,
And a second spring recall);
Nor from thee will ever part,
Ancient Person of my Heart.
Great Negative, how vainly would the Wise
Enquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise,
Didst thou not stand to point their dull Philosophies?
A merry monarch, scandalous and poor.
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?
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.
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.
We have a pretty witty king,
Whose word no man relies on;
He never said a foolish thing,
Nor ever did a wise one.