John Wilmot

Chloe, In verse by your command I write. Shortly you’ll bid me ride astride, and fight: These talents better with our sex agree Than lofty flights of dangerous poetry. Amongst the men, I mean

I could love thee till I die, Would’st thou love me modestly, And ne’er press, whilst I live, For more than willingly I would give: Which should sufficient be to prove I’d understand the

I cannot change, as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain, that sighs for you For you alone was born. No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move A surer way I’ll

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. What ever is to come is not,

My dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me, When with love’s resistless art, And her eyes, she did enslave me; But her constancy’s so weak, She’s so wild

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

Give me leave to rail at you, – I ask nothing but my due: To call you false, and then to say You shall not keep my heart a day. But alas! against my

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

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

Well Sir, ’tis granted, I said Dryden’s Rhimes, Were stoln, unequal, nay dull many times: What foolish Patron, is there found of his, So blindly partial, to deny me this? But that his Plays,

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms, I filled with love, and she all over charms; Both equally inspired with eager fire, Melting through kindness, flaming in desire. With arms, legs, lips close

I cannot change, as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain that sighs for you, For you alone was born. No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move A surer way I’ll

Quoth the Duchess of Cleveland to counselor Knight, “I’d fain have a prick, knew I how to come by’t. I desire you’ll be secret and give your advice: Though cunt be not coy, reputation

At five this morn, when Phoebus raised his head From Thetis’ lap, I raised myself from bed, And mounting steed, I trotted to the waters The rendesvous of fools, buffoons, and praters, Cuckolds, whores,

To this moment a rebel I throw down my arms, Great Love, at first sight of Olinda’s bright charms. Make proud and secure by such forces as these, You may now play the tyrant