WARNING: THERE FOLLOWS LANGUAGE WHICH MAY OFFEND THE DELICATE FLOWERS AMONG YOU!
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 scepter and his prick are of 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 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 it`s 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.
Yet his dull, graceless bollocks hang an arse.
This you`d believe, had I time to tell ye
The pain it costs to pour, 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,
~~ Lord John Wilmot, A Satyre on King Charles II ~~Lord John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester was the premier Restoration libertine, among a bustling, rumbustious and highly competitive ensemble of moral degenerates which circled the court of King Charles II, like satellites drawn by the pungent, and irresistible gravity of free sex on tap from the innumerable courtesans which made up the copious royal brothel. The Restoration period in England was noted for regained sexual freedom, after the stern Republican Commonwealth of Oliver Cromwell: he may have made England a place to be reckoned with across Europe, but when you can`t celebrate Christmas, who cares? When Parliament decided to offer Charlie a way back to the old homeland, it was party time again. The price being that Charles sat on a throne without power or influence; a kept man, like a burnished bird of paradise in a gilded cage. The upside was he could indulge his appetites in other directions…..namely an immense liking for the sex act, which he never tired of performing. And so, young bloods such as young Lord John Wilmot, gravitated to the king and his open court of royal hookers: but John was a cut above the rest; he had a talent for a sexy and critical language very much of `the moment` which tended to render his poetry a no go zone for future generations who had no inside knowledge of the nuances implicit in his poetic commentaries.
His seraphic presence, beauty and acidic wit, quickly anathematized him as evil incarnate, his pen his weapon of choice with which to lacerate and publicly undress his helpless victims, one of whom was the king himself. Due to his sexual activities, John duly caught every single sexually transmitted disease known to the over indulgent male, and slowly lost his looks, his health – and his nose, while at the same time making his writings ever more biting and vicious. The extent of his corpus is small in relation to his reputation. The oeuvre within which he operated was not concerned with publication, but more with the written word being seen and passed around, rather like the turning on and off of a literary filament; short lived sensations of wit and wisdom. In such a world of here and now sensory excitement, a reputation was built and maintained by a constant drip-feed of literary gems, not on any thoughts of making a literary monument of oneself for posterity.It shouldn`t be assumed that the words used by Wilmot in A Satyre on Charles II were in themselves offensive to the intended target: such language was in common use throughout society, and none would have taken too much of an exception to them; we have to move on to the 19th century`s prudish preoccupation with bodily functions, and it`s outlawing of any word associated with them, to see the dawn of the swear word. To Charles, the context in which the words are shaped would have been offensive, not the words in themselves. Charles`s rage can be fully appreciated, when Wilmot, having presented the poem to the king by mistake, had to suddenly scuttle off to the nearest port to escape his wrath. In his day, Wilmot was considered second only to Dryden, and Andrew Marvell`s striking opinion of him still rings down the centuries: “The Earle of Rochester was the only man in England that had the true veine of Satyre.”
Wilmot`s nihilistic self destructive tendency would have been well appreciated in modern society: he knew he was going to hit the buffers sooner or later, but he was going down doing it his way. For him, it was better to burn out than fade away, because every day was party time; everyone, and everything was a target for his razor wire sharp wit; every woman was there for his pleasure, every king, and every man in high office who thought too highly of himself was there to be lampooned. To be honest, he probably didn`t like people, and the world they lived in very much; but he also probably didn`t fancy himself either.
For all that, he was a man of profane wit, who hated the pompous, self importance of the hollow men he saw all around him. His venomous spite against “reasonable” man falling from the mountain of his useless speculations in his Satyr against Reason and Mankind, is as good an example of the nihilistic philosophy of the age as any. His death was mourned by poets, and his memory and works consigned to the dustbin by the morally outraged Victorians; but he is slowly coming back from the brink of oblivion, into the sunshine of a more culturally aware age, which can once again, appreciate his flamboyant, rock-star lifestyle, lavish wit, and ingeniously versatile use of language. Lord John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester………………Come On Down!