 | The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester |  |
The Imperfect Enjoyment.
Naked she lay, claspt in my longing Arms,I fill'd with Love, and she all over charms,
Both equally inspir'd 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.
The nimble Tongue (Love's lesser Lightning) plaid
Within my Mouth, and to my thoughts conveyd
Swift Orders, that I shou'd prepare to throw,
The All-dissolving Thunderbolt below.
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Hangs hov'ring o're her Balmy Brinks of Bliss.
But whilst her busie hand, wou'd guide that part,
Which shou'd convey my Soul up to her Heart,
In liquid Raptures, I dissolve all o're,
Melt into Sperme, and spend at ev'ry Pore:
A touch from any part of her had don't,
Her Hand, her Foot, her very look's a Cunt.
Smiling, she chides in a kind murm'ring Noise,
And from her Body wipes the clammy joys;
When with a Thousand Kisses, wand'ring o're
My panting Bosome,—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 shew my wisht 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,
Apply'd to my dead Cinder, warms no more,
Than Fire to Ashes, cou'd past Flames restore.
Trembling, confus'd, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I ly.
This Dart of love, whose piercing point oft try'd,
With Virgin blood, Ten thousand Maids has dy'd;
Which Nature still directed with such Art,
That it through ev'ry Cunt, reacht ev'ry Heart.
Stiffly resolv'd, twou'd carelesly invade,
Woman or Man, nor ought its fury staid,
Where e're it pierc'd, a Cunt it found or made.
Now languid lies, in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up, and Sapless, like a wither'd Flow'r.
Thou treacherous, base, deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my Fame;
Through what mistaken Magick dost thou prove,
So true to lewdness, so untrue to Love?
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Didst thou e're fail in all thy Life before?
When Vice, Disease and Scandal lead the way,
With what officious hast dost thou obey?
Like a Rude roaring Hector, in the Streets,
That Scuffles, Cuffs, and Ruffles 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 displaid,
Breaks ev'ry Stew, does each small Whore invade,
But when great Love, the onset does command,
Base Recreant, to thy Prince, thou darst 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.
May'st thou to rav'nous Shankers, be a Prey,
Or in consuming Weepings waste away.
May Strangury, and Stone, thy Days attend,
May'st thou ne're 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 wrong'd Corinna, right for thee.
| The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester | |