When my young master’s worship comes to town,
From pedagogue and mother just set free,
The heir and hopes of a great family;
Which, with strong ale and beef, the country rules,
And ever since the Conquest have been fools.
And now, with careful prospect to maintain
The character, lest crossing of the strain
Should mend the booby breed, his friends provide
A cousin of his own to be his bride.
And thus set out
With an estate, no wit, and a young wife
(The solid comforts of a coxcomb’s life),
Dunghill and pease forsook, he comes to town,
Turns spark, learns to be lewd, and is undone.
Nothing suits worse with vice than want of sense:
Fools are still wicked at their own expense.
“This o’ergrown schoolboy lost Corinna wins,
And at first dash to make an ass begins:
Pretends to like a man who has not known
The vanities nor vices of the town;
Fresh in his youth, and faithful in his love;
Eager of joys which he does seldom prove;
Healthful and strong, he does no pains endure
But what the fair one he adores can cure;
Grateful for favors, does the sex esteem,
And libels none for being kind to him;
Then of the lewdness of the times complains:
Rails at the wits and atheists, and maintains
’Tis better than good sense, than power or wealth,
To have a love untainted, youth, and health.
“The unbred puppy, who had never seen
A creature look so gay, or talk so fine,
Believes, then falls in love, and then in debt;
Mortgages all, ev’n to the ancient seat,
To buy this mistress a new house for life;
To give her plate and jewels, robs his wife.
And when t’ th’ height of fondness he is grown,
’Tis time to poison him, and all’s her own.
Thus meeting in her common arms his fate,
He leaves her bastard heir to his estate,
And, as the race of such an owl deserves,
His own dull lawful progeny he starves.
“Nature, who never made a thing in vain,
But does each insect to some end ordain,
Wisely contrived kind keeping fools, no doubt,
To patch up vices men of wit wear out.”
Thus she ran on two hours, some grains of sense
Still mixed with volleys of impertinence.
But now ’tis time I should some pity show
To Chloe, since I cannot choose but know
Readers must reap the dullness writers sow.
But the next post such stories I will tell
As, joined with these, shall to a volume swell,
As true as heaven, more infamous than hell.
But you are tired, and so am I.
Farewell.
To the Postboy
Rochester: Son of a whore, God damn you, can you tell
A peerless peer the readiest way to hell;
I’ve outswilled Bacchus, sworn of my own make
Oaths would fright Furies, and make Pluto quake;
I’ve swived more whores more ways than Sodom’s walls
E’er knew, or the college of Rome’s cardinals.
Witness heroic scars – look here, ne’er go! –
Sear cloths and ulcers from the top to toe.
Frighted at my own mischiefs, I have fled
And bravely left my life’s defender dead;
Broke houses to break chastity, and dyed
That floor with murder which my lust denied.
Pox on’t, why do I speak of these poor things?
I’ve blasphemed God, and libeled kings.
The readiest way to Hell, Boy, quick, ne’er stir!’
Post Boy: ‘The readiest way, my Lord’s by Rochester.’
The Disabled Debauchee
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,
And each bold action to his mind renews
His present glory, and his past delight;
From his fierce eyes, flashes of rage he throws,
As from black clouds when lightning breaks away, Transported, thinks himself amidst his 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,
Driven from the pleasing billows of debauch,
On the dull shore of lazy temperance,
My pains at last some respite shall afford,
Whilst I behold the battles you maintain,
When fleets of glasses sail about the board,
From whose broadsides volleys of wit shall rain.
Nor shall the sight of honourable scars,
Which my too-forward valour did procure,
Frighten new-listed soldiers from the wars.
Past joys have more than paid what I endure.
Should hopeful youths (worth being drunk) prove nice,
And from their fair inviters meanly shrink,
’Twould please the ghost of my departed vice,
If at my counsel they repent and drink.
Or should some cold-complexioned sot forbid,
With his dull morals, our night’s brisk 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, Cloris, be forgot,
When each the well-looked link-boy 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 heat inspire,
As to important mischief shall incline.
I’ll make them long some ancient church to fire,
And fear no lewdness they’re called to by wine.
Thus statesman-like, I’ll saucily impose,
And safe from danger valiantly advise,
Sheltered in impotence, urge you to blows,
And being good for nothing else, be wise.
Song of a Young Lady to her Ancient Lover
I.
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.
II.
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.
III.
Thy nobler parts, which but to name,
In our sex would be counted shame,
By Age’s frozen grasp possessed,
From their Ice shall be released:
And, soothed by my reviving hand,
In former warmth and vigour stand.
All a lover’s wish can reach,
For thy joy my love shall teach:
And for thy pleasure shall improve
All that art can add to love.
Ye
t still I love thee without art,
Ancient person of my heart.
Upon Nothing
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 thy fruitful emptiness’s hand,
Snatched men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land.
Matter, the wickedest 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, assists thy 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 thy truth in private lies,
Yet this of thee the wise may freely say,
Thou from the virtuous nothing takest away,
And to be part of thee the wicked wisely pray.
Great Negative, how vainly would the wise
Inquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise?
Didst thou not stand to point their dull philosophies.
Is, or is not, the two great ends of Fate,
And true or false, the subject of debate,
That perfects, or destroys, the vast designs of Fate,
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?
Whist weighty Something modestly abstains
From princes’ coffers, and from statesmen’s brains,
And Nothing there like stately Nothing reigns,
Nothing, who dwellest 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,
Spaniard’s dispatch, Dane’s wit are mainly seen in thee.
The great man’s gratitude to his best friend,
King’s promises, whore’s vows, towards thee they bend,
Flow swiftly to thee, and in thee never end.
An Epistolary Essay from MG to OB Upon their Mutual Poems
Dear friend,
I hear this town does so abound
With saucy censurers, that faults are found
With what of late we, in poetic rage
Bestowing, threw away on the dull age.
But howsoe’er envy their spleen may raise
To rob my brow of the deservèd bays,
Their thanks at I least I merit, since through me
They are partakers of your poetry.
And this is all I’ll say in my defence:
T’ obtain one line of your well-worded sense,
I’d be content t’ have writ the British Prince.
I’m none of those who think themselves inspired,
Nor write with the vain hopes to be admired,
But from a rule I have upon long trial:
T’ avoid with care all sort of self-denial.
Which way soe’er desire and fancy lead,
Contemning fame, that path I boldly tread.
And if, exposing what I take for wit,
To my dear self a pleasure I beget,
No matter through the censuring critic fret.
Those whom my muse displeases are at strife
With equal spleen against my course of life,
That least delight of which I’d not forgo
For all the flattering praise man can bestow.
If I designed to please, the way were then
To mend my manners rather than my pen.
The first’s unnatural, therefore unfit,
And for the second, I despair of it,
Since grace is not so hard to get as wit.
Perhaps ill verses ought to be confined
In mere good breeding, like unsavory wind.
Were reading forced, I should be apt to think
Men might no more write scurvily than stink.
But ’tis your choice whether you’ll read or no;
If likewise of your smelling it were so,
I’d fart, just as I write, for my own ease,
Nor should you be concerned unless you please.
I’ll own that you write better than I do,
But I have as much need to write as you.
What though the excrement of my dull brain
Runs in a costive and insipid strain,
Whilst your rich head eases itself of wit:
Must none but civet cats have leave to shit?
In all I write, should sense and wit and rhyme
Fail me at once, yet something so sublime
Shall stamp my poem, that the world may see
It could have been produced by none but me.
And that’s my end, for man can wish no more
Than so to write, as none e’er writ before.
But why am I no poet of the times?
I have allusions, similes, and rhymes,
And wit—or else ’tis hard that I alone
Of the whole race of mankind should have none.
Unequally the partial hand of heaven
Has all but this one only blessing given.
The world appears like a large family
Whose lord, oppressed with pride and poverty,
That to a few great plenty he may show,
Is fain to starve the numerous train below:
Just so seems Providence, as poor and vain,
Keeping more creatures than it can maintain;
Here ’tis profuse, and there it meanly saves,
And for one prince it makes ten thousand slaves.
In wit alone ’t has been munificent,
Of which so just a share to each is sent
That the most avaricious is content:
Who ever thought—the due division’s such—
His own too little, or his friend’s too much?
Yet most men show, or find great want of wit,
Writing themselves, or judging what is writ.
But I, who am of sprightly vigor full,
Look on mankind as envious and dull.
Born to myself, myself I like alone
And must conclude my judgment good, or none.
For should my sense be nought, how could I know
Whether another man’s be good or no?
Thus I resolve of my own poetry
That ’tis the best, and that’s a fame for me.
If then I’m happy, what does it advance
Whether to merit due, or arrogance?
“Oh! but the world will take offense by thereby.”
Why then, the world will suffer for ’t, not I.
Did e’er this saucy world and I agree
To let it have its beastly will of me?
Why should my prostituted sense be drawn
To every rule their musty customs spawn?
“But men will censure you.” ’Tis ten to one
&n
bsp; Whene’er they censure, they’ll be in the wrong.
There’s not a thing on earth that I can name
So foolish and so false as common fame.
It calls th’ courtier knave, the plain man rude,
Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd,
Impertinent the brisk, morose the sad,
Mean the familiar, the reserved one mad.
Poor helpless woman is not favored more:
She’s a sly hypocrite, or public whore.
Then who the devil would give this to be free
From th’ innocent reproach of infamy?
These things considered make me, in despite
Of idle rumor, keep at home and write.
A Translation from Seneca’s Troades
After death nothing is, and nothing, death:
The utmost limit of a gasp of breath.
Let the ambitious zealot lay aside
His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride;
Let slavish souls lay by their fear,
Nor be concerned which way nor where
After this life they shall be hurled.
Dead, we become the lumber of the world,
And to that mass of matter shall be swept
Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept.
Devouring time swallows us whole;
Impartial death confounds body and soul.
For Hell and the foul fiend that rules
God’s everlasting fiery jails
(Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools),
With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door,
Are senseless stories, idle tales,
Dreams, whimseys and no more.
We hope you enjoyed this book.
For more information, click one of the links below:
Bibliography
Acknowledgements
Picture credits
Index
~
Alexander Larman
An invitation from the publisher
Picture section
1. John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester, in a portrait after Sir Peter Lely. Rochester, the ‘wicked lord’, lived exuberantly and died at thirty-three, having — according to Dr Johnson — ‘blazed out his youth and health in lavish voluptuousness’.
2. Charles Stuart flees Cromwell’s forces following the royalist defeat at Worcester, September 1651. The figure in the distance, riding as a decoy in the guise of a huntsman, is Henry Wilmot, future 1st Earl of Rochester and father of John Wilmot.
3. Wadham College, Oxford, c.1675. John Wilmot took up his place here in January 1660, at the age of just twelve.
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