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Libertines, Lotharios or Bastards?

Rochester Pushes His Luck

Rochester Pushes His Luck
John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester 1647-1680

Dildos, Defamation and Disguise

1673

Bloody hell John, what have you done?

You were supposed to have shown the King a witty poem about dildoes; instead you presented a verse accusing him of being a whore mongering idler with his brain in his breeches. “A Merry Monarch” indeed, he’ll have your bollocks on a spike and you’ll never be welcomed at court again.

And you say you did it by accident?

I mean, “Signior Dildo” is funny. All those high born ladies hopelessly in love with hand carved Italian pizzles, all the husbands furious because they’re no longer needed to service their wives, I nearly pissed myself.

“You would take him at first for no person of note,
Because he appears in a plain leather coat,
But when you his virtuous abilities know,
You’ll fall down and worship Signior Dildo.”

Although if every woman did take to pleasuring herself with a tarse shaped piece of wood, you, Sedley, Etherege, Killigrew, Villiers and the rest of the “Merrie Gang” would be the first to jump in the Thames.

“This signior is sound, safe, ready, and dumb
As ever was candle, carrot, or thumb;
Then away with these nasty devices, and show
How you rate the just merit of Signior Dildo.”

"Do you have anything in a  Large?" “Do you have anything in a “Large”?”

If you hadn’t been drunk for the last five years you may’ve given His Majesty the verse he asked for instead of one that was only supposed to be seen by a select few.

I wonder sometimes if you don’t enjoy courting calamity.

Charles has been indulgent of you in the past, but you are not a beautiful boy of eighteen any more. You’re ten years older, pickled with wine and judging from the sores on your face and the blood in your piss, you’re more poxed than a ha’penny French whore.

You were full of youthful vigour in 65 when you had lovely Elizabeth Mallet kidnapped because you couldn’t get under her skirts with your poetry. I’m not sure how romantic she found being waylaid in the middle of the night by the armed men you hired. Did she swoon with passion as they stopped her coach and bustled her away to goodness knows where? You were obviously too enflamed with lust to think clearly, because you only got as far as Uxbridge before getting arrested.

"Once i've kidnapped her she'll find me irresistible" “Once I’ve kidnapped her, she’ll find me irresistible”

Not surprisingly the King was livid, so off to the Tower you go, but three weeks later you’re out. Perhaps he found the deliberately simpering apology you wrote to him amusing “I would have chosen death ten thousand time rather than displease you”, ugh.

You did prove you had plenty of spunk (!) when you were away with the fleet, bravely fighting the Dutch. However, you’d only been back on dry land five minutes before getting yourself banished again.

Was it really a good idea to trick pretty little Anne Temple into believing her friend Lady Dorothy Howard preferred to lie with women?  Repelled by your false assertions, she burst into tears, ran to her room and got undressed. Full of innocent concern, Lady Howard followed her. She was then found by the matron of the bedchamber five minutes later, trying to embrace a naked, sobbing girl.

" Rochester was right about you Lady Howard, you are brimming with unnatural lusts. Kindly stop admiring this poor girls derriere and leave the room" ” Rochester was right about you Lady Howard, you are brimming with unnatural lusts. Kindly stop admiring this poor girls derriere and leave the room”

Everyone thought Howard was forcing Temple to “Play the game of flats” and by the time the truth came out she was a laughing stock and you’d been packed off to the continent.

Casual wear Casual wear

Howard did say some unpleasant things about you though.

“He is nothing but a danger to our sex; and that to such a degree that no woman listens to him three times without irretrievably losing her reputation.

He applauds your taste, submits to your feelings, and even though he himself does not believe a single word of what he is saying, he makes you believe it all.”

Personally I think she has a point.

Who else would have the gusto to take the King of England whoring in disguise, then run away with his clothes and purse while he’s busy pleasuring a strumpet? His majesty had to ask the bawd if she’d give him credit.

As far as she was concerned he was  a lanky, penniless rogue trying to get something for nothing so she gave him a mouthful of abuse. He had to ask if she would send for a jeweller to place a value on his royal ring (!) before he could leave. I would have loved to have seen her face when she realised the “Tall black man” was telling the truth.

"Pssssst...Once he's on the job, nick all of his stuff it'll be a laugh" “Pssssst…Once he’s on the job, nick all of his stuff it’ll be a laugh”

Yet still he forgave you.

This time though I think you’ve run out of luck. The king likes fucking, he likes wine and he thinks dildoes are funny (have you heard, Customs men have just burnt a consignment smuggled in from France?) but what he also demands is the respect of his subjects.

And you give him this

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 a 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 thy 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 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 best relief of his declining years,
Oft he bewails his fortune, and her fate:
To love so well, and be beloved so late.

 For though in her he settles well his tarse,
Yet his dull, graceless bollocks hang an arse.
This you’d believe, had I but time to tell ye
The pains it costs to poor, 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,
From the hector of France to the cully of Britain.

"Not a word of it is true my dear .......ROCHESTER!" “Not a word of it is true my dear …….ROCHESTER!”

 

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