[Rochester had to flee the court for several months <br />after handing this to the King by mistake.] <br /> <br /> <br />In th' isle of Britain, long since famous grown <br />For breeding the best cunts in Christendom, <br />There reigns, and oh! long may he reign and thrive, <br />The easiest King and best bred man alive. <br />Him no ambition moves to get reknown <br />Like the French fool, that wanders up and down <br />Starving his people, hazarding his crown. <br />Peace is his aim, his gentleness is such, <br />And love he loves, for he loves fucking much. <br />Nor are his high desires above his strength: <br />His scepter and his prick are of a length; <br />And she may sway the one who plays with th' other, <br />And make him little wiser than his brother. <br />Poor Prince! thy prick, like thy buffoons at court, <br />Will govern thee because it makes thee sport. <br />'Tis sure the sauciest prick that e'er did swive, <br />The proudest, peremptoriest prick alive. <br />Though safety, law, religion, life lay on 't, <br />'Twould break through all to make its way to cunt. <br />Restless he rolls about from whore to whore, <br />A merry monarch, scandalous and poor. <br />To Carwell, the most dear of all his dears, <br />The best relief of his declining years, <br />Oft he bewails his fortune, and her fate: <br />To love so well, and be beloved so late. <br />Yet his dull, graceless bollocks hang an arse. <br />This you'd believe, had I but time to tell ye <br />The pains it costs to poor, laborious Nelly, <br />Whilst she employs hands, fingers, mouth, and thighs, <br />Ere she can raise the member she enjoys. <br />All monarchs I hate, and the thrones they sit on, <br />From the hector of France to the cully of Britain.<br /><br />Lord John Wilmot<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-satyre-on-charles-ii-2/
