Blazing Star

by Larman, Alexander;

  Had filled her cunt with wholesome juice,

  I the proceeding should have praised

  In hope she had quenched a fire I raised.

  Such natural freedoms are but just:

  There’s something generous in mere lust.

  But to turn a damned abandoned jade

  When neither head nor tail persuade;

  To be a whore in understanding,

  A passive pot for fools to spend in!

  The devil played booty, sure, with thee

  To bring a blot on infamy.

  But why am I, of all mankind,

  To so severe a fate designed?

  Ungrateful! Why this treachery

  To humble fond, believing me,

  Who gave you privilege above

  The nice allowances of love?

  Did ever I refuse to bear

  The meanest part your lust could spare?

  When your lewd cunt came spewing home

  Drenched with the seed of half the town,

  My dram of sperm was supped up after

  For the digestive surfeit water.

  Full gorged at another time

  With a vast meal of slime

  Which your devouring cunt had drawn

  From porters’ backs and footmen’s brawn,

  I was content to serve you up

  My ballock-full for your grace cup,

  Nor ever thought it an abuse

  While you had pleasure for excuse -

  You that could make my heart away

  For noise and color, and betray

  The secrets of my tender hours

  To such knight-errant paramours,

  When, leaning on your faithless breast,

  Wrapped in security and rest,

  Soft kindness all my powers did move,

  And reason lay dissolved in love!

  May stinking vapors choke your womb

  Such as the men you dote upon

  May your depraved appetite,

  That could in whiffling fools delight,

  Beget such frenzies in your mind

  You may go mad for the north wind,

  And fixing all your hopes upon’t

  To have him bluster in your cunt,

  Turn up your longing arse t’ th’ air

  And perish in a wild despair!

  But cowards shall forget to rant,

  Schoolboys to frig, old whores to paint;

  The Jesuits’ fraternity

  Shall leave the use of buggery;

  Crab-louse, inspired with grace divine,

  From earthly cod to heaven shall climb;

  Physicians shall believe in Jesus,

  And disobedience cease to please us,

  Ere I desist with all my power

  To plague this woman and undo her.

  But my revenge will best be timed

  When she is married that is limed.

  In that most lamentable state

  I’ll make her feel my scorn and hate:

  Pelt her with scandals, truth or lies,

  And her poor cur with jealousies,

  Till I have torn him from her breech,

  While she whines like a dog-drawn bitch;

  Loathed and despised, kicked out o’ th’ town

  Into some dirty hole alone,

  To chew the cud of misery

  And know she owes it all to me.

  And may no woman better thrive

  That dares prophane the cunt I swive!

  Love and Life

  All my past life is mine no more,

  The flying hours are gone,

  Like transitory dreams given 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 heaven allows.

  ‘Leave this Gaudy, Gilded Stage’

  Leave this gaudy guilded stage,

  From custom more than use frequented,

  Where fools of either sex and age

  Crowd to see themselves presented.

  To Love’s theatre, the bed,

  Youth and beauty fly together,

  And act so well it may be said

  The laurel there was due to either.

  ’Twixt strifes of love and war, the difference lies in this:

  When neither overcomes, love’s triumph greater is.

  Upon his Drinking a Bowl

  Vulcan, contrive me such a cup

  As Nestor used of old;

  Show all thy skill to trim it up,

  Damask it round with gold.

  Make it so large that, filled with sack

  Up to the swelling brim,

  Vast toasts on the delicious lake,

  Like ships at sea may swim.

  Engrave not battle on his cheek,

  With war I’ve naught to do:

  I’m none of those that took Maastricht,

  Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.

  Let it no name of planets tell,

  Fixed stars or constellations;

  For I am no Sir Sidrophel,

  Nor none of his relations.

  But carve thereon a spreading vine,

  Then add two lovely boys;

  Their limbs in amorous folds entwine,

  The type of future joys.

  Cupid and Bacchus my saints are,

  May Drink and Love still reign!

  With wine I wash away my care,

  And then to cunt again.

  Signior Dildo

  You ladies of merry England

  Who have been to kiss the Duchess’s hand,

  Pray, did you not lately observe in the show

  A noble Italian called Signior Dildo?

  This signior was one of Her Highness’s train

  And helped to conduct her over the main;

  But now she cries out, ‘To the Duke I will go,

  I have no more need for Signior Dildo.’

  At the Sign of the Cross in St James’s Street,

  When next you go thither to make yourselves sweet

  By buying of powder, gloves, essence, or so,

  You may chance to get a sight of Signior Dildo.

  You would take him at first for no person of note,

  Because he appears in a plain leather coat,

  But when you his virtuous abilities know,

  You’ll fall down and worship Signior Dildo.

  My Lady Southesk, heaven prosper her for’t!

  First clothed him in satin, then brought him to court;

  But his head in the circle he scarcely durst show,

  So modest a youth was Signior Dildo.

  The good Lady Suffolk, thinking no harm,

  Had got this poor stranger hid under her arm.

  Lady Betty by chance came the secret to know

  And from her own mother stole Signior Dildo.

  The Countess of Falmouth, of whom people tell

  Her footmen wear shirts of a guinea an ell,

  Might save that expense, if she did but know

  How lusty a swinger is Signior Dildo.

  By the help of this gallant the Countess of Rafe

  Against the fierce Harrys preserved herself safe;

  She stifled him almost beneath her pillow,

  So closely she embraced Signior Dildo.

  Our dainty fine duchesses have got a trick

  To dote on a fool for the sake of his prick,

  The fops were undone did their graces but know

  The discretion and vigour of Signior Dildo.

  The pattern of virtue, Her Grace of Cleveland,

  Has swallowed more pricks than the ocean h
as sand;

  But by rubbing and scrubbing so wide does it grow,

  It is fit for just nothing but Signior Dildo.

  The Duchess of Modena, though she looks so high,

  With such a gallant is content to lie,

  And for fear that the English her secrets should know,

  For her gentleman usher took Signior Dildo.

  The Countess o’th’Cockpit (who knows not her name?

  She’s famous in story for a killing dame),

  When all her old lovers forsake her, I trow,

  She’ll then be contented with Signior Dildo.

  Red Howard, red Sheldon, and Temple so tall

  Complain of his absence so long from Whitehall.

  Signior Barnard has promised a journey to go

  And bring back his countryman, Signior Dildo.

  Doll Howard no longer with His Highness must range,

  And therefore is proferred this civil exchange:

  Her teeth being rotten, she smells best below,

  And needs must be fitted for Signior Dildo.

  St Albans with wrinkles and smiles in his face,

  Whose kindness to strangers becomes his high place,

  In his coach and six horses is gone to Borgo

  To take the fresh air with Signior Dildo.

  Were this signior but known to the citizen fops,

  He’d keep their fine wives from the foremen of shops;

  But the rascals deserve their horns should still grow

  For burning the Pope and his nephew Dildo.

  Tom Killigrew’s wife, that Holland fine flower,

  At the sight of this signior did fart and belch sour,

  And her Dutch breeding the further to show,

  Says, ‘Welcome to England, Mynheer Van Dildo.’

  He civilly came to the Cockpit one night,

  And proferred his service to fair Madam Knight.

  Quoth she, ‘I intrigue with Captain Cazzo;

  Your nose in mine arse, good Signior Dildo.’

  This signior is sound, safe, ready, and dumb

  As ever was candle, carrot, or thumb;

  Then away with these nasty devices, and show

  How you rate the just merit of Signior Dildo.

  Count Cazzo, who carries his nose very high,

  In passion he swore his rival should die;

  Then shut himself up to let the world know

  Flesh and blood could not bear it from Signior Dildo.

  A rabble of pricks who were welcome before,

  Now finding the porter denied ‘em the door,

  Maliciously waited his coming below

  And inhumanly fell on Signior Dildo.

  Nigh wearied out, the poor stranger did fly,

  And along the Pall Mall they followed full cry;

  The women concerned from every window

  Cried, ‘For heaven’s sake, save Signior Dildo.’

  The good Lady Sandys burst into a laughter

  To see how the ballocks came wobbling after,

  And had not their weight retarded the foe,

  Indeed’t had gone hard with Signior Dildo.

  A Satire on Charles II

  In th’ isle of Britain, long since famous grown

  For breeding the best cunts in Christendom,

  There reigns, and oh! long may he reign and thrive,

  The easiest King and best-bred man alive.

  Him no ambition moves to get renown

  Like the French fool, that wanders up and down

  Starving his people, hazarding his crown.

  Peace is his aim, his gentleness is such,

  And love he loves, for he loves fucking much.

  Nor are his high desires above his strength:

  His sceptre and his prick are of a length;

  And she may sway the one who plays with th’ other,

  And make him little wiser than his brother.

  Poor Prince! thy prick, like thy buffoons at Court,

  Will govern thee because it makes thee sport.

  ’Tis sure the sauciest prick that e’er did swive,

  The proudest, peremptoriest prick alive.

  Though safety, law, religion, life lay on ’t,

  ’Twould break through all to make its way to cunt.

  Restless he rolls about from whore to whore,

  A merry monarch, scandalous and poor.

  To Carwell, the most dear of all his dears,

  The best relief of his declining years,

  Oft he bewails his fortune, and her fate:

  To love so well, and be beloved so late.

  For though in her he settles well his tarse,

  Yet his dull, graceless bollocks hang an arse.

  This you’d believe, had I but time to tell ye

  The pains it costs to poor, laborious Nelly,

  Whilst she employs hands, fingers, mouth, and thighs,

  Ere she can raise the member she enjoys.

  All monarchs I hate, and the thrones they sit on,

  From the hector of France to the cully of Britain.

  ‘Love a Woman? You’re an Ass!’

  Love a woman? You’re an ass!

  ’Tis a most insipid passion,

  To choose out for your happiness

  The silliest part of God’s creation.

  Let the porter and the groom,

  Things designed for dirty slaves,

  Drudge in fair Aurelia’s womb,

  To get supplies for age and graves.

  Farewell, woman! I intend

  Henceforth every night to sit

  With my lewd well-natured friend,

  Drinking to engender wit.

  Then give me health, wealth, mirth, and wine,

  And if busy Love entrenches,

  There’s a sweet soft page of mine,

  Does the trick worth forty wenches.

  A Satire Against Reason and Mankind

  Were I (who to my cost already am

  One of those strange, prodigious creatures, man)

  A spirit free to choose, for my own share

  What case of flesh and blood I pleased to wear,

  I’d be a dog, a monkey, or a bear,

  Or anything but that vain animal,

  Who is so proud of being rational.

  The senses are too gross, and he’ll contrive

  A sixth, to contradict the other five,

  And before certain instinct, will prefer

  Reason, which fifty times for one does err;

  Reason, an ignis fatuus of the mind,

  Which, leaving light of nature, sense, behind,

  Pathless and dangerous wand’ring ways it takes

  Through error’s fenny bogs and thorny brakes;

  Whilst the misguided follower climbs with pain

  Mountains of whimseys, heaped in his own brain;

  Stumbling from thought to thought, falls headlong down

  Into doubt’s boundless sea where, like to drown,

  Books bear him up awhile, and make him try

  To swim with bladders of philosophy;

  In hopes still to o’ertake th’ escaping light;

  The vapour dances in his dazzling sight

  Till, spent, it leaves him to eternal night.

  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.

  Huddled in dirt the reasoning engine lies,

  Who was so proud, so witty, and so wise.

  Pride drew him in, as cheats their bubbles catch,

  And made him venture to be made a wretch.

  His wisdom did his happiness destroy,

  Aiming to know that world he should enjoy.

  And wit was his vain, frivolous pretense

  Of pleasing others at his own expense.

  For wits are treated just like common whores:

  First they’r
e enjoyed, and then kicked out of doors.

  The pleasure past, a threatening doubt remains

  That frights th’ enjoyer with succeeding pains.

  Women and men of wit are dangerous tools,

  And ever fatal to admiring fools:

  Pleasure allures, and when the fops escape,

  ’Tis not that they’re beloved, but fortunate,

  And therefore what they fear, at heart they hate.

  But now, methinks, some formal band and beard

  Takes me to task. Come on, sir; I’m prepared.

  “Then, by your favor, anything that’s writ

  Against this gibing, jingling knack called wit

  Likes me abundantly; but you take care

  Upon this point, not to be too severe.

  Perhaps my muse were fitter for this part,

  For I profess I can be very smart

  On wit, which I abhor with all my heart.

  I long to lash it in some sharp essay,

  But your grand indiscretion bids me stay

  And turns my tide of ink another way.

  “What rage ferments in your degenerate mind

  To make you rail at reason and mankind?

  Blest, glorious man! to whom alone kind heaven

  An everlasting soul has freely given,

  Whom his great Maker took such care to make

  That from himself he did the image take

  And this fair frame in shining reason dressed

  To dignify his nature above beast;

  Reason, by whose aspiring influence

  We take a flight beyond material sense,

  Dive into mysteries, then soaring pierce

  The flaming limits of the universe,

  Search heaven and hell, Find out what’s acted there,

  And give the world true grounds of hope and fear.”

  Hold, mighty man, I cry, all this we know

  From the pathetic pen of Ingelo;

  From Patrick’s Pilgrim, Sibbes’ soliloquies,

  And ’tis this very reason I despise:

  This supernatural gift, that makes a mite

  Think he’s an image of the infinite,

  Comparing his short life, void of all rest,

  To the eternal and the ever blest;

  This busy, puzzling stirrer-up of doubt

  That frames deep mysteries, then finds ‘em out,

  Filling with frantic crowds of thinking fools

  Those reverend bedlams, colleges and schools;

  Borne on whose wings, each heavy sot can pierce

  The limits of the boundless universe;

  So charming ointments make an old witch fly

  And bear a crippled carcass through the sky.

  ’Tis this exalted power, whose business lies