Nasty 17th Century Poetry!

Simon Darkshade

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Who ever said they didn't have fun in the old days?

Régime de Vivre


I rise at eleven, I dine about two,
I get drunk before seven; and the next thing I do,
I send for my wh*re, 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 b*tch, growing bold, to my pocket does creep;
Then slyly she leaves me, and, to revenge the affront,
At once she bereaves me of money and c**t.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!
I storm and I roar, and I fall in a rage,
And missing my wh*re, I bugger my page.
Then, crop-sick all morning, I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yawning 'till eleven again.


Earl of Rochester

:eek:
Dylan Thomas, Allen Ginsberg eat your heart out. This man could debauch in STYLE! :lol:
 

Simon Darkshade

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Oh tish pish posh. That's as low as having a chukka in a buttery, what!
Verily, I say unto you that such confounded dastardliness will lead to me calling me china plates and huscarls to belabour you with riding crops if it should not cease forthwith!

The main inspiration for mine own words come not from Rochester/John Wilmot, but rather from a few gentlemen a few centuries onwards from him, although his admirable lifestyle is one we all seek to emulate.
 
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:lol: great

fear and loathing in 17th century rochester!
 

Simon Darkshade

Mysterious City of Gold
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Another one, if a little more subtle. Draw from it what implications you will.

A Song of a Young Lady to Her Ancient Lover

by John (Earl of Rochester) Wilmot

Ancient Person, for whom I
All the flattering youth defy,
Long be it e'er thou grow old,
Aching, shaking, crazy cold;
But still continue as thou art,
Ancient Person of my heart.

On thy withered lips and dry,
Which like barren furrows lie,
Brooding kisses I will pour,
Shall thy youthful heart restore,
Such kind show'rs in autumn fall,
And a second spring recall;
Nor from thee will ever part,
Ancient Person of my heart.

Thy nobler parts, which but to name
In our sex would be counted shame,
By ages frozen grasp possest,
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.
Yet still I love thee without art,
Ancient Person of my heart.
 
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