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John Wilmot, died 26 July 1680, of complications from too much shagging incautious swiving.
On King Charles
In the isle of Great Britain long since famous grown
For breeding the best cunts in Christendom,
There reigns, and oh, long may he reign and thrive,
The easiest prince and best-bred man alive.
Him no ambition moves to get renown
Like the French fool, to wander up and down
Starving his subjects, 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 a length;
And she that plays with one may sway the other,
And make him little wiser than his brother.
I hate all monarchs and the thrones they sit on,
From the hector of France to the cully of Britain.
Poor prince, thy prick, like thy buffoons at Court,
It governs 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 sure relief of his declining years,
Oft he bewails his fortune and her fate:
To love so well, and be loved so late.
For when in her he settles well his tarse,
Yet his dull, graceless ballocks hang an arse.
This you'd believe, had I but time to tell y'
The pains it costs to poor, laborious Nelly,
Whilst she employs hands, fingers, mouth, and thighs,
Ere she can raise the member she enjoys.
