Rochester had to flee the court for several months after handing this to the King by mistake
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
reknownLike 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.
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.
--
John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester