 | The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester |  |
125
POEMS POSSIBLY BY ROCHESTER
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Anacreontic.
[The Heaven drinks each Day a Cup]
The Heaven drinks each Day a Cup,
No Wonder Atlas holds her up.
The Trees suck up the Earth and Ground,
And in their Brown Bowls drink around.
The Sea too, whom the Salt makes dry,
His greedy thirst to satisfy,
Ten Thousand Rivers drinks, and then
He's drunk, and spews them up again.
The Sun (and who so right as he)
Sits up all Night to drink the Sea.
The Moon quaffs up the Sun, her Brother,
And wishes she cou'd tope another.
Ev'ry Thing fuddles; then that I,
Is't any Reason should be dry?
Well; I'le be content to Thirst,
But too much Drink shall make me first.
No Wonder Atlas holds her up.
The Trees suck up the Earth and Ground,
And in their Brown Bowls drink around.
The Sea too, whom the Salt makes dry,
His greedy thirst to satisfy,
Ten Thousand Rivers drinks, and then
He's drunk, and spews them up again.
The Sun (and who so right as he)
Sits up all Night to drink the Sea.
The Moon quaffs up the Sun, her Brother,
And wishes she cou'd tope another.
Ev'ry Thing fuddles; then that I,
Is't any Reason should be dry?
Well; I'le be content to Thirst,
But too much Drink shall make me first.
On Rome's Pardons.
If Rome can pardon Sins, as Romans hold,
And if those Pardons, can be bought and sold,
It were no Sin, t'adore, and worship Gold.
And if those Pardons, can be bought and sold,
It were no Sin, t'adore, and worship Gold.
If they can purchase Pardons with a Sum,
For Sins they may commit in time to come,
And for Sins past, 'tis very well for Rome.
For Sins they may commit in time to come,
And for Sins past, 'tis very well for Rome.
At this rate they are happy'st that have most;
They'll purchase Heav'n, at their own proper cost,
Alas! the Poor! all that are so are lost.
They'll purchase Heav'n, at their own proper cost,
Alas! the Poor! all that are so are lost.
Whence came this knack, or when did it begin?
What Author have they, or who brought it in?
Did Christ, e're keep a Custom-house for Sin?
What Author have they, or who brought it in?
Did Christ, e're keep a Custom-house for Sin?
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Some subtle Devil, without more ado,
Did certainly this sly invention brew,
To gull 'em of their Souls, and Money too.
Did certainly this sly invention brew,
To gull 'em of their Souls, and Money too.
To His MISTRESS.
I
Why do'st thou shade thy lovely face? O whyDoes that Eclipsing hand of thine deny
The Sun-shine of the Suns enlivening Eye.
II
Without thy light, what light remains in meThou art my Life, my way my Light's in Thee,
I Live I move and by thy beams I see.
III
Thou art my Life, if thou but turn awayMy Life's a thousand Deaths, thou art my way
Without Thee (Love) I travel not but Stray.
IV
My Light thou art, without thy Glorious sightMy Eyes are Darkned with Eternal night
My Love Thou art my way, my Life my light.
V
Thou are my way I wander if thou flyThou art my Light, if hid how blind am I
Thou art my Life if thou withdraw'st I Die.
VI
My Eyes are dark and blind I cannot seeTo whom or whether should my darkness flee
But to that Light, and who's that Light but Thee.
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VII
If that be all Shine forth and draw thou nigherLet me be bold and Dye for my desire
A Phenix likes to Perish in the Fire.
VIII
If my Puft Light be out give leave to—My Shameless Snuff at the bright Lamp of thine
Ah! what's thy Light the less for Lighting mine.
IX
If I have lost my Path dear Lover sayShall I still wander in a Doubtful way
Love shall a Lamb of Israel's Sheepfold Stray.
X
My Path is lost my wandring Steps does StrayI cannot go nor safely Stay
Whom should I seek but Thee my Path my Way.
XI
And yet thou turn'st thy Face a way and flyest meAnd yet I sue for Grace and thou deniest me
Speak art thou angry, Love or tryest me.
XII
Display those Heavenly Lamps, or tell me whyThou Shad'st my Face perhaps no Eye
Can View their Flames and not drop down and Die.
XIII
Thou art the Pilgrims Path and Blind-Mans EyeThe Dead Mans Life on Thee my hopes rely
If I but them remove I e'er I Die.
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XIV
Disolve thy Sun-Beams close thy Wings and StaySee See how I am blind and Dead and Stray
Oh thou that art my Life my Light my way.
XV
Then work my will if Passion bid me fleeMy Reason shall obey my Wings shall be
Stretched out no further then from me to thee.
Regime d'viver
I Rise at Eleven, I Dine about Two,
I get drunk before Seven, and the next thing I do,
I send for my Whore, when for fear of a Clap,
I Spend in her hand, and I Spew in her Lap:
Then we quarrel, and scold, till I fall fast asleep,
When the Bitch, growing bold, to my Pocket does creep;
Then slyly she leaves me, and to revenge th'affront,
At once she bereaves me of Money, and Cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed, and drunk,
What a coyle do I make for the loss of my Punck?
I storm and I roar, and I fall in a rage,
And missing my Whore, I bugger my Page:
Then crop-sick, all Morning, I rail at my Men,
And in Bed I lye Yawning, till Eleven again.
I get drunk before Seven, and the next thing I do,
I send for my Whore, when for fear of a Clap,
I Spend in her hand, and I Spew in her Lap:
Then we quarrel, and scold, till I fall fast asleep,
When the Bitch, growing bold, to my Pocket does creep;
Then slyly she leaves me, and to revenge th'affront,
At once she bereaves me of Money, and Cunt.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed, and drunk,
What a coyle do I make for the loss of my Punck?
I storm and I roar, and I fall in a rage,
And missing my Whore, I bugger my Page:
Then crop-sick, all Morning, I rail at my Men,
And in Bed I lye Yawning, till Eleven again.
Against Marriage
Out of meer Love and arrant Devotion
Of Marriage Ile give you this Galloping Notion,
It's the bane of all business the end of all Pleasure,
The consumption of Witt, Youth, Vertue and Treasure.
It's the Rack of our Thoughts the Nightmare of sleep,
That setts us to work before the day Peep.
It makes us make brick without stubble or straw,
And a Cunt has no sence of conscience or law.
If you needs must have Flesh, take the way that is noble
In a generous Wench theres nothing of Trouble,
You come on, you come off say do what you pleas,
The worst you can fear is but a Disease:
And diseases you know will admitt of a cure,
But the Hellfire of Marriage the Damn'd do indure.
Of Marriage Ile give you this Galloping Notion,
It's the bane of all business the end of all Pleasure,
The consumption of Witt, Youth, Vertue and Treasure.
It's the Rack of our Thoughts the Nightmare of sleep,
That setts us to work before the day Peep.
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And a Cunt has no sence of conscience or law.
If you needs must have Flesh, take the way that is noble
In a generous Wench theres nothing of Trouble,
You come on, you come off say do what you pleas,
The worst you can fear is but a Disease:
And diseases you know will admitt of a cure,
But the Hellfire of Marriage the Damn'd do indure.
| The poems of John Wilmot: Earl of Rochester | |