Count on Rochester for the most beautiful poem in the English language on the subject of premature ejaculation. It was first published in 1680, shortly after Rochester’s death.
This is a reading text in modern spelling, with no pretense to being a critical edition. The notes are my own.
| 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, [5] | |
| She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face. | |
| Her nimble tongue, Love’s lesser lightening, played | |
| Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed° | delivered |
| Swift orders that I should prepare to throw | |
| The all-dissolving thunderbolt below. [10] | |
| My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss, | |
| Hangs hovering o’er her balmy° brinks of bliss. | delicious |
| 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, [15] | ecstasy |
| Melt into sperm, and spend° at every pore. | ejaculate |
| A touch from any part of her had done ’t:° | would have done it |
| Her hand, her foot, her very look’s a cunt. | |
| Smiling, she chides° in a kind murmuring noise, | teases |
| And from her body wipes the clammy joys, [20] | |
| 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, [25] | lost, ruined |
| To show my wished obedience vainly strive:° | try |
| I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.° | fuck |
| Eager desires confound° my first intent, | defeat |
| Succeeding shame does more success prevent, | |
| And rage at last confirms me impotent. [30] | |
| Ev’n her fair hand, which might bid heat return | |
| To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn, | |
| Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more | |
| Than fire to ashes could past flames restore. | |
| Trembling, confused, despairing, limber,° dry, [35] | limp |
| A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie. | |
| This dart° of love, whose piercing point, oft tried, | arrow |
| With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed; | |
| Which nature still directed with such art | |
| That it through every cunt reached every heart — [40] | |
| Stiffly resolved, ’twould carelessly invade | |
| Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed:° | and nothing could stop its fury |
| Where’er it pierced, a cunt it found or made — | |
| Now languid° lies in this unhappy hour, | powerless |
| Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower. [45] | |
| 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? | immoral sex |
| What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore [50] | |
| Didst thou e’er fail in all thy life before? | |
| When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way, | |
| With what officious° haste dost thou obey! | eager to please |
| Like a rude, roaring hector° in the streets | bully |
| Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets, [55] | |
| But if his king or country claim his aid, | |
| The rakehell° villain shrinks and hides his head; | immoral |
| Ev’n so thy brutal valour is displayed, | |
| Breaks every stew,° does each small whore invade, | whorehouse |
| But when great Love the onset does command, [60] | |
| Base recreant° to thy prince, thou dar’st not stand. | traitor |
| 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 do rub themselves on gates and grunt, [65] | |
| May’st thou to ravenous chancres° be a prey, | weeping sores |
| Or in consuming weepings waste away; | |
| May strangury° and stone° thy days attend; | painful urination — kidneystone |
| May’st thou ne’er piss, who did refuse to spend° | ejaculate |
| When all my joys did on false thee depend. [70] | |
| And may ten thousand abler pricks agree | |
| To do the wronged Corinna right for thee. |