Poetry Sunday 3 May 2015

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The Imperfect Enjoyment

A poem by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester(1647-1680) in which he admonishes his Dishonourable Member for twice failing a lady in her hour of need.  Comments by Ira Maine, Poetry Editor after the poem

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 clinging to embrace, 
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face. 
Her nimble tongue, love’s lesser lightning, played 
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed 
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw 
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below. 
My fluttering soul, sprung with the pointed kiss, 
Hangs hovering o’er her balmy brinks of bliss. 
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part 
Which should convey my soul up to her heart, 
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o’er, 
Melt into sperm, and spend at every pore. 
A touch from any part of her had done ’t: 
Her hand, her foot, her very look’s a cunt.
    Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise, 
And from her body wipes the clammy joys, 
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o’er 
My panting bosom, “Is there then no more?” 
She cries. “All this to love and rapture’s due; 
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?” 
    But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive, 
To show my wished obedience vainly strive: 
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive. 
Eager desires confound my first intent, 
Succeeding shame does more success prevent, 
And rage at last confirms me impotent. 
Ev’n her fair hand, which might bid heat return 
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn, 
Applied to my dear cinder, warms no more 
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore. 
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry, 
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie. 
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried, 
With virgin blood ten thousand maids has dyed, 
Which nature still directed with such art 
That it through every cunt reached every heart— 
Stiffly resolved, ’twould carelessly invade 
Woman or man, nor ought its fury stayed: 
Where’er it pierced, a cunt it found or made— 
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour, 
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower. 
    Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame, 
False to my passion, fatal to my fame, 
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove 
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love? 
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore 
Didst thou e’er fail in all thy life before? 
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way, 
With what officious haste doest thou obey! 
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets 
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets, 
But if his king or country claim his aid, 
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head; 
Ev’n so thy brutal valor is displayed, 
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade, 
But when great Love the onset does command, 
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar’st not stand. 
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most, 
Through all the town a common fucking post, 
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt 
As hogs on gates do rub themselves and grunt, 
Mayst thou to ravenous chancres be a prey, 
Or in consuming weepings waste away; 
May strangury and stone thy days attend; 
May’st thou never piss, who didst refuse to spend 
When all my joys did on false thee depend. 
 And may ten thousand abler pricks agree 
 To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

Comments:
To begin with Wilmot and Corinna are in bed where her nakedness, her arms, lips, legs, her nimble tongue all combine to bring John Wilmot to the point where, he is now rigidly resolved-

‘…to throw the all-dissolving thunderbolt below…’

[does this adequately describe a chap’s entry to the Promised Land?]

And then, as is usual to the etiquette in these matters;

‘…her busy hand would guide that part…’

It would indeed were it not for young Wilmot’s over eager acquiesence to the demands of her softly guiding fingers.

Alas and alack, he is undone…

Before even the portals of the Promised Land are breached he confesses;

‘..in liquid raptures I dissolve all o’er,

Melt into sperm and spend at every pore…’

Come, come, Mr Wilmot…

Then, having survived this little death, this little disaster, not unreasonably, the young and sexually aroused lady, noticing Wilmot’s failure to produce a second ‘thunderbolt’, asks the question;

‘…is there then no more?… all this to love and rapture’s due,’

[The intensity of his love caused premature ejaculation the first time, but now?]

‘Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?…’

Surely, Rochester, you can raise another thunderbolt?  Surely we can have another crack at it?

A not unreasonable request, and one a chap of Wilmot’s young age might easily supply, but then the point of the poem would be lost.  The point being that Wilmot finds,on this occasion at least, that he cannot, like Zeus or Thor, produce thunderbolts at will.

I sigh, alas! And kiss, but cannot swive…’ [swive; perform sexual intercourse]

Wilmot’s analysis of the situation;

‘…eager desires [ejaculatio praecox] confound my first intent.

Succeeding shame does more success prevent,

And rage at last, confirms me impotent…’

Embarrassment, shame and rage all combine to render him impotent.

Pitifully, hilariously the poet tells us that despite having conquered countless ‘…balmy brinks of bliss…’  in the past, right now, at this very moment;

‘..a wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie…’

Thus far, dear reader, John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, has confessed to both premature ejaculation and impotence. What else might be in store?

Well, whilst talking of his Honourable Member and of where it has found itself in the past, he does say that;

‘…stiffly resolved, ‘twould carelessly invade

Woman or man, nor ought it’s fury stayed:

Where’er it pierced, a cunt it found, or made-…’

But now it is;

‘…shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower…’

Well, lah-de-dah, bless my soul and sundry other breathless expressions…

We now become aware that Prem. Ejac. And Impotence were simple appetizers. The Earl of Rochester also enjoyed a stroll on both sides of the street.

‘…woman or man…a cunt it found, or made…’

Finally, the poet sets about wishing all the pains of hell on his Dishonourable Member in return for this awful betrayal.

Why he asks of his old fellow, are you so eager and upright a citizen when it comes to ‘stews’ [brothels] and yet, when love is involved, do you fail me utterly?

‘…so true to lewdness, so untrue to love?

What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore (17th century parlance for ladies of easy virtue in whose company his Honourable Member has never in the past failed to stand for re-erection)

Did’st thou e’er fail in all thy life before?…’

He compares his member to an unprincipled swine who is always the first to volunteer;

‘…when vice, disease or scandal lead the way…but if his King or Country claim his aid, the rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head…’

Wilmot in the end wishes on his deflated companion all of the painful horrors it deserves for failing him in love.

‘…mayst thou to ravenous chancres be a prey…’[ulcers]

Or in consuming weepings waste away…’ [ unstaunchable weeping sores…]

‘…may stranguary and stone thy days attend…’ [painful urination and gallstones]

May urination itself be denied you because you failed absolutely when I most needed you.

Then the dismissive insult that;

‘…ten thousand abler pricks agree

To do the wronged Corinna right for thee…’

That other more able members would be infinitely better able to satisfy Corinna than you, you;

‘…treacherous, base deserter of my flame, 

false to my passion, fatal to my fame…’

The Restoration in England threw off the bonds of Cromwellian Puritanism and celebrated the pleasures of the flesh in no uncertain manner. What Rochester was doing in verse, Congreve, Wycherley, and a host of others were doing on stage with plays like ‘The Country Wife’ and ‘The Way of the World’.  People flocked to the theatre in great numbers to celebrate the loosening of restrictions. Respectability and ‘seriousness’ crept back in the early 18th century but not before some of the most splendidly rude Restoration comedys were written and performed. They are still being celebrated today.

Sadly, John Wilmot contracted syphilis, a then incurable disease, where blindness, madness and unbearable pain must be endured before death.He was 33 years old.

His work is well worth hunting out and reading. I commend him to you.