John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester

Nothing! thou elder brother even to Shade: That hadst a being ere the world was made, And well fixed, art alone of ending not afraid. Ere Time and Place were, Time and Place were not, When primitive Nothing Something straight begot; Then all proceeded from the great united What. Something, the general attribute of all, Severed from thee, its sole original, Into thy boundless self must undistinguished fall; Yet Something did thy mighty power command, And from fruitful Emptiness’s hand Snatched men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land. Matter the wicked’st offspring of thy race, By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace, And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face. With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join; Body, thy foe, with these did leagues combine To spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line; But turncoat Time assists the foe in vain, And bribed by thee, destroys their short-lived reign, And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again. Though mysteries are barred from laic eyes, And the divine alone with warrant pries Into thy bosom, where truth in private lies, Yet this of thee the wise may truly say, Thou from the virtuous nothing dost delay, And to be part with thee the wicked wisely pray. Great Negative, how vainly would the wise Inquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise, Didst thou not stand to point their blind philosophies! Is, or Is Not, the two great ends of Fate, And True or False, the subject of debate, That perfect or destroy the vast designs of state— When they have racked the politician’s breast, Within thy Bosom most securely rest, And when reduced to thee, are least unsafe and best. But Nothing, why does Something still permit That sacred monarchs should at council sit With persons highly thought at best for nothing fit, While weighty Something modestly abstains From princes’ coffers, and from statemen’s brains, And Nothing there like stately Nothing reigns? Nothing! who dwell’st with fools in grave disguise For whom they reverend shapes and forms devise, Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like thee look wise: French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy, Hibernian learning, Scotch civility, Spaniards’ dispatch, Danes’ wit are mainly seen in thee. The great man’s gratitude to his best friend, Kings’ promises, whores’ vows—towards thee may bend, Flow swiftly into thee, and in thee ever end.

Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny The sunshine of the Sun’s enlivening eye? Without thy light what light remains in me? Thou art my life; my way, my light’s in thee; I live, I move, and by thy beams I see. Thou art my life-if thou but turn away My life’s a thousand deaths. Thou art my way- Without thee, Love, I travel not but stray. My light thou art-without thy glorious sight My eyes are darken’d with eternal night. My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light. Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly. Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I! Thou art my life; if thou withdraw’st, I die. My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see: To whom or whither should my darkness flee, But to that light?-and who’s that light but thee? If I have lost my path, dear lover, say, Shall I still wander in a doubtful way? Love, shall a lamb of Israel’s sheepfold stray? My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray; I cannot go, nor can I safely stay; Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way? And yet thou turn’st thy face away and fly’st me! And yet I sue for grace and thou deny’st me! Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try’st me? Thou art the pilgrim’s path, the blind man’s eye, The dead man’s life. On thee my hopes rely: If I but them remove, I surely die. Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay! See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray! -O thou art my life, my light, my way! Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee, My reason shall obey, my wings shall be Stretch’d out no farther than from me to thee!

Ancient person, for whom I All the flattering youth defy, Long be it ere thou grow old, Aching, shaking, crazy, cold; But still continue as thou art, Ancient person of my heart. On thy withered lips and dry, Which like barren furrows lie, Brooding kisses I will pour Shall thy youthful [heat] restore (Such kind showers in autumn fall, And a second spring recall); Nor from thee will ever part, Ancient person of my heart. Thy nobler part, which but to name In our sex would be counted shame, By age’s frozen grasp possessed, From [his] ice shall be released, And soothed by my reviving hand, In former warmth and vigor stand. All a lover’s wish can reach For thy joy my love shall teach, And for they pleasure shall improve All that art can add to love. Yet still I love thee without art, Ancient person of my heart.

I swive as well as others do, I’m young, not yet deformed, My tender heart, sincere, and true, Deserves not to be scorned. Why Phyllis then, why will you swive, With forty lovers more? Can I (said she) with Nature strive, Alas I am, alas I am a whore. Were all my body larded o’er, With darts of love, so thick, That you might find in ev’ry pore, A well stuck standing prick; Whilst yet my eyes alone were free, My heart, would never doubt, In am’rous rage, and ecstasy, To wish those eyes, to wish those eyes fucked out.

All my past life is mine no more, The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams giv’n o’er, Whose images are kept in store By memory alone. The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment’s all my lot; And that, as fast as it is got, Phyllis, is only thine. 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.

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, She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face. Her nimble tongue, love’s lesser lightning, played Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed Swift orders that I should prepare to throw The all-dissolving thunderbolt below. My fluttering soul, sprung with the pointed kiss, Hangs hovering o’er her balmy brinks of bliss. But whilst her busy hand would guide that part Which should convey my soul up to her heart, In liquid raptures I dissolve all o’er, Melt into sperm, and spend at every pore. A touch from any part of her had done ’t: Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt. Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise, And from her body wipes the clammy joys, When, with a thousand kisses wandering o’er My panting bosom, “Is there then no more?” She cries. “All this to love and rapture’s due; Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?” But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive, To show my wished obedience vainly strive: I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive. Eager desires confound my first intent, Succeeding shame does more success prevent, And rage at last confirms me impotent. Ev’n her fair hand, which might bid heat return To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn, Applied to my dear cinder, warms no more Than fire to ashes could past flames restore. Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry, A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie. This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried, With virgin blood ten thousand maids has dyed, Which nature still directed with such art That it through every cunt reached every heart— Stiffly resolved, ’twould carelessly invade Woman or man, nor ought its fury stayed: Where’er it pierced, a cunt it found or made— Now languid lies in this unhappy hour, Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower. 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? What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore Didst thou e’er fail in all thy life before? When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way, With what officious haste doest thou obey! Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets, But if his king or country claim his aid, The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head; Ev’n so thy brutal valor is displayed, Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade, But when great Love the onset does command, Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar’st not stand. Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most, Through all the town a common fucking post, On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt As hogs on gates do rub themselves and grunt, Mayst thou to ravenous chancres be a prey, Or in consuming weepings waste away; May strangury and stone thy days attend; May’st thou never piss, who didst refuse to spend When all my joys did on false thee depend. And may ten thousand abler pricks agree To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

As some brave admiral, in former war Deprived of force, but pressed with courage still, Two rival fleets appearing from afar, Crawls to the top of an adjacent hill; From whence, with thoughts full of concern, he views The wise and daring conduct of the fight, Whilst each bold action to his mind renews His present glory and his past delight; From his fierce eyes flashes of fire he throws, As from black clouds when lightning breaks away; Transported, thinks himself amidst the foes, And absent, yet enjoys the bloody day; So, when my days of impotence approach, And I’m by pox and wine’s unlucky chance Forced 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 maintain When fleets of glasses sail about the board, From whose broadsides volleys of wit shall rain. Nor let the sight of honorable scars, Which my too forward valor did procure, Frighten new-listed soldiers from the wars: Past joys have more than paid what I endure. Should any youth (worth being drunk) prove nice, And from his fair inviter meanly shrink, ’Twill please the ghost of my departed vice If, at my counsel, he repent and drink. Or should some cold-complexioned sot forbid, With his dull morals, our bold night-alarms, I’ll fire his blood by telling what I did When I was strong and able to bear arms. I’ll tell of whores attacked, their lords at home; Bawds’ quarters beaten up, and fortress won; Windows demolished, watches overcome; And handsome ills by my contrivance done. Nor shall our love-fits, Chloris, be forgot, When each the well-looked linkboy strove t’ enjoy, And the best kiss was the deciding lot Whether the boy fucked you, or I the boy. With tales like these I will such thoughts inspire As to important mischief shall incline: I’ll make him long some ancient church to fire, And fear no lewdness he’s called to by wine. Thus, statesmanlike, I’ll saucily impose, And safe from action, valiantly advise; Sheltered in impotence, urge you to blows, And being good for nothing else, be wise.

I cannot change, as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain, that sighs for you For you alone was born. No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move A surer way I’ll try: And to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on, will still love on, and die. When, kill’d with grief, Amyntas lies; And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise; The tears that vainly fall: That welcome hour that ends this smart, Will then begin your pain; For such a faithful, tender heart Can never break, can never break in vain.