The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester Edited by Keith Walker |
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 | EPIGRAMS, IMPROMPTUS, JEUX D'ESPRIT, ETC. |
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 | The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester |  |
119
EPIGRAMS, IMPROMPTUS, JEUX D'ESPRIT, ETC.
121
To his more than Meritorious Wife
I am by Fate Slave to your Will,And I will be Obedient Still,
To Shew my Love I will compose ye,
For your fair fingers ring a Posie,
In which shall be express'd my Duty,
And how I'le be for ever true t'ye,
With Low made Legs and Sugard Speeches,
Yielding to your fair Bum the Breeches,
And shew my Self in all I can,
Your very Humble Servant Jan.
Under King Charles IIs Picture
I John Roberts writ This same,I pasted it, and plaister'd it, and put it in a Frame:
In Honor of my Master's Master, King Charles the Second by Name.
[[On Louis XIV]]
Lorrain he Stole, by Fraud he got BurgundyFlanders he bought 'ods you Shall pay for't one day.
[[Epigram] ]
[Poet who e'er thou art, God damn Thee]
Poet who e'er thou art, God damn TheeGo hang thyself, and burn Thy Mariamne.
122
[[Rhime to Lisbone]]
A health to Kate,Our Soveraigns Mate,
Of the Royal House of Lisbone:
But the Devil take Hyde,
And the Bishop beside,
Who made her bone his bone.
[[On King Charles]]
God bless our good and gracious KingWhose promise none relyes on
Who never said A foolish thing
Nor ever did A wise one.
Rochester extempore
And after singing psalme the 12th
He layd his booke uppon the shelfe,
And lookd much simply like himselfe;
With eyes turn'd up as white as ghost
He cryd ah lard, ah lard of Hosts!
I am a rascall, that thou know'st.
He layd his booke uppon the shelfe,
And lookd much simply like himselfe;
With eyes turn'd up as white as ghost
He cryd ah lard, ah lard of Hosts!
I am a rascall, that thou know'st.
Spoken Extempore to a Country Clerk, after having heard him sing Psalms.
Sternhold and Hopkins had great Qualms,
When they Translated David's Psalms,
To make the Heart full glad:
But had it been poor David's Fate,
To hear thee Sing, and them Translate,
By God 'twould have made him Mad.
When they Translated David's Psalms,
To make the Heart full glad:
But had it been poor David's Fate,
To hear thee Sing, and them Translate,
By God 'twould have made him Mad.
123
[[To forme a Plott]]
—To forme a Plott,
The blustring Bard whose rough unruly Rhyme
Gives Plutarch's lives the lye in ev'ry Lyne
Who rapture before nature does preferr
And now himself turn'd his own Imager
Defaceth god's in ev'ry Character
The blustring Bard whose rough unruly Rhyme
Gives Plutarch's lives the lye in ev'ry Lyne
Who rapture before nature does preferr
And now himself turn'd his own Imager
Defaceth god's in ev'ry Character
A Lampoon upon the English Grandees.
Monmouth the wittiest!
Lauderdale the prettiest!
And Frazor the brave phisitian!
But above all the rest
The Duke for a jest!
And the King for a great polititian!
Lauderdale the prettiest!
And Frazor the brave phisitian!
But above all the rest
The Duke for a jest!
And the King for a great polititian!
Upon Cary Frazer
Her Father gave her Dildoes six;
Her Mother made 'um up a score:
But she loves nought but living pricks
And swears by God sheel frig no more.
Her Mother made 'um up a score:
But she loves nought but living pricks
And swears by God sheel frig no more.
The Earl of ROCHESTER's Answer, to a Paper of Verses, sent him by L. B. Felton, and taken out of the Translation of Ovid's Epistles, 1680.
What strange Surprise to meet such Words as these?
Such Terms of Horrour were ne'er chose to please:
To meet, midst Pleasures of a Jovial Night,
Words that can only give amaze and fright,
No gentle thought that does to Love invite.
Were it not better far your Arms t'employ,
Grasping a Lover in pursuit of Joy,
Than handling Sword, and Pen, Weapons unfit:
Your Sex gains Conquest, by their Charms and Wit.
Of Writers slain I could with pleasure hear,
Approve of Fights, o'er-joy'd to cause a Tear;
So slain, I mean, that she should soon revive,
Pleas'd in my Arms to find her self Alive.
Such Terms of Horrour were ne'er chose to please:
To meet, midst Pleasures of a Jovial Night,
Words that can only give amaze and fright,
No gentle thought that does to Love invite.
124
Grasping a Lover in pursuit of Joy,
Than handling Sword, and Pen, Weapons unfit:
Your Sex gains Conquest, by their Charms and Wit.
Of Writers slain I could with pleasure hear,
Approve of Fights, o'er-joy'd to cause a Tear;
So slain, I mean, that she should soon revive,
Pleas'd in my Arms to find her self Alive.
| The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester | |