Poems by Lord John Wilmot

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Poems to Mulgrave and Scroope

Deare Friend.

I heare this Towne does soe abound,

With sawcy Censurers, that faults are found,

With what of late wee (in Poetique Rage)

Bestowing, threw away on the dull Age;

But (howsoe're Envy, their Spleen may raise,

To Robb my Brow, of the deserved Bays)

Their thanks at least I merit since through me,

Lord John Wilmot

Portsmouth's Looking Glass

Methinks I see you, newly risen

From your embroider'd Bed and pissing,

With studied mien and much grimace,

Present yourself before your glass,

To vanish and smooth o'er those graces,

You rubb'd off in your Night Embraces.

Lord John Wilmot

Return

Absent from thee, I languish still;

Then ask me not, When I return?

The straying fool 'twill plainly kill

To wish all day, all night to mourn.

Dear, from thine arms then let me fly,

That my fantastic mind may prove

The torments it deserves to try,

That tear my fix'd heart from my love.

Lord John Wilmot

Absent of Thee I Languish Still

Absent from thee I languish still;

Then ask me not, when I return?

The straying fool 'twill plainly kill

To wish all day, all night to mourn.

Dear! from thine arms then let me fly,

That my fantastic mind may prove

The torments it deserves to try

That tears my fixed heart from my love.

Lord John Wilmot

To His Mistress

Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why

Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny

The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye?

Without thy light what light remains in me?

Thou art my life; my way, my light's in thee;

I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.

Thou art my life-if thou but turn away

My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way-

Lord John Wilmot

A Woman's Honour

Love bade me hope, and I obeyed;

Phyllis continued still unkind:

Then you may e'en despair, he said,

In vain I strive to change her mind.

Honour's got in, and keeps her heart,

Durst he but venture once abroad,

In my own right I'd take your part,

And show myself the mightier God.

Lord John Wilmot

Constancy

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 try:

And to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, will still love on, and die.

Lord John Wilmot

The Dying Lover

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 try:

And to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, will still love on, and die.

Lord John Wilmot

A Letter from Artemesia in the Town to Chloe in the Country

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 the men of wit

(At least they passed for such before they writ),

How many bold adventureers for the bays,

Lord John Wilmot

Epitaph on Charles II

Here lies our Sovereign Lord the King,

Whose word no man relies on,

Who never said a foolish thing,

Nor ever did a wise one.

Lord John Wilmot

Tunbridge Wells

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, citizens, their wives and daughters.

My squeamish stomach I with wine had bribed

To undertake the dose that was prescribed;

But turning head, a sudden curséd view

Lord John Wilmot

A Satyre Against Mankind

Were I (who to my cost already am

One of those strange prodigious Creatures Man)

A Spirit free, to choose for my own share,

What Case of Flesh, and Blood, I pleas'd to weare,

I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear,

Or any thing but that vain Animal,

Who is so proud of being rational.

The senses are too gross, and he'll contrive

Lord John Wilmot