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Best Famous John Wilmot Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous John Wilmot poems. This is a select list of the best famous John Wilmot poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous John Wilmot poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of John Wilmot poems.

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Written by John Wilmot |

The Mistress

 An age in her embraces passed
Would seem a winter's day;
When life and light, with envious haste,
Are torn and snatched away.
But, oh! how slowly minutes roll.
When absent from her eyes That feed my love, which is my soul, It languishes and dies.
For then no more a soul but shade It mournfully does move And haunts my breast, by absence made The living tomb of love.
You wiser men despise me not, Whose love-sick fancy raves On shades of souls and Heaven knows what; Short ages live in graves.
Whene'er those wounding eyes, so full Of sweetness, you did see, Had you not been profoundly dull, You had gone mad like me.
Nor censure us, you who perceive My best beloved and me Sign and lament, complain and grieve; You think we disagree.
Alas, 'tis sacred jealousy, Love raised to an extreme; The only proof 'twixt her and me, We love, and do not dream.
Fantastic fancies fondly move And in frail joys believe, Taking false pleasure for true love; But pain can ne'er deceive.
Kind jealous doubts, tormenting fears, And anxious cares when past, Prove our heart's treasure fixed and dear, And make us blessed at last.

Written by John Wilmot |


 I cannot change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain, that sighs for you
For you alone was born.
No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move A surer way I'll try: And to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on, will still love on, and die.
When, kill'd with grief, Amyntas lies; And you to mind shall call The sighs that now unpitied rise; The tears that vainly fall: That welcome hour that ends this smart, Will then begin your pain; For such a faithful, tender heart Can never break, can never break in vain.

Written by John Wilmot |

Upon Nothing

 Nothing, thou elder brother even to shade,
That hadst a being ere the world was made,
And (well fixed) art alone of ending not afraid.
Ere time and place were, time and place were not, When primitive Nothing Something straight begot, Then all proceeded from the great united--What? Something, the general attribute of all, Severed from thee, its sole original, Into thy boundless self must undistinguished fall.
Yet Something did thy mighty power command, And from thy fruitful emptiness's hand, Snatched men, beasts, birds, fire, air, and land.
Matter, the wickedest offspring of thy race, By Form assisted, flew from thy embrace, And rebel Light obscured thy reverend dusky face.
With Form and Matter, Time and Place did join, Body, thy foe, with these did leagues combine To spoil thy peaceful realm, and ruin all thy line.
But turncoat Time assists the foe in vain, And, bribed by thee, assists thy short-lived reign, And to thy hungry womb drives back thy slaves again.
Though mysteries are barred from laic eyes, And the Divine alone with warrant pries Into thy bosom, where thy truth in private lies, Yet this of thee the wise may freely say, Thou from the virtuous nothing takest away, And to be part of thee the wicked wisely pray.
Great Negative, how vainly would the wise Inquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise? Didst thou not stand to point their dull philosophies.
Is, or is not, the two great ends of Fate, And true or false, the subject of debate, That perfects, or destroys, the vast designs of Fate, When they have racked the politician's breast, Within thy bosom most securely rest, And, when reduced to thee, are least unsafe and best.
But Nothing, why does Something still permit That sacred monarchs should at council sit With persons highly thought at best for nothing fit? Whist weighty Something modestly abstains From princes' coffers, and from statesmen's brains, And Nothing there like stately Nothing reigns, Nothing, who dwellest with fools in grave disguise, For whom they reverend shapes and forms devise, Lawn sleeves, and furs, and gowns, when they like thee look wise.
French truth, Dutch prowess, British policy, Hibernian learning, Scotch civility, Spaniard's dispatch, Dane's wit are mainly seen in thee.
The great man's gratitude to his best friend, King's promises, whore's vows, towards thee they bend, Flow swiftly to thee, and in thee never end.

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Written by John Wilmot |

The Platonic Lady

 I could love thee till I die,
Would'st thou love me modestly,
And ne'er press, whilst I live,
For more than willingly I would give:
Which should sufficient be to prove
I'd understand the art of love.
I hate the thing is called enjoyment: Besides it is a dull employment, It cuts off all that's life and fire From that which may be termed desire; Just like the bee whose sting is gone Converts the owner to a drone.
I love a youth will give me leave His body in my arms to wreathe; To press him gently, and to kiss; To sigh, and look with eyes that wish For what, if I could once obtain, I would neglect with flat disdain.
I'd give him liberty to toy And play with me, and count it joy.
Our freedom should be full complete, And nothing wanting but the feat.
Let's practice, then, and we shall prove These are the only sweets of love.

Written by John Wilmot |

Absent of Thee I Languish Still

 Absent from thee I languish still;
Then ask me not, when I return?
The straying fool 'twill plainly kill
To wish all day, all night to mourn.
Dear! from thine arms then let me fly, That my fantastic mind may prove The torments it deserves to try That tears my fixed heart from my love.
When, wearied with a world of woe, To thy safe bosom I retire where love and peace and truth does flow, May I contented there expire, Lest, once more wandering from that heaven, I fall on some base heart unblest, Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven, And lose my everlasting rest.

Written by John Wilmot |

Epitaph on Charles II

 Here lies a great and mighty King,
Whose promise none relied on;
He never said a foolish thing,
Nor ever did a wise one.

Written by John Wilmot |

Love and Life

 All my past life is mine no more, 
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams giv'n o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.
The time that is to come is not; How can it then be mine? The present moment's all my lot; And that, as fast as it is got, Phyllis, is only thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows; If I, by miracle, can be This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that Heav'n allows.

Written by John Wilmot |

All My Past Life...

 All my past life is mine no more,
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o'er,
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.
What ever is to come is not, How can it then be mine? The present moment's all my lot, And that as fast as it is got, Phyllis, is wholly thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy, False hearts, and broken vows, Ii, by miracle, can be, This live-long minute true to thee, 'Tis all that heaven allows.

Written by John Wilmot |

My Dear Mistress Has a Heart

 My dear mistress has a heart
Soft as those kind looks she gave me,
When with love's resistless art,
And her eyes, she did enslave me;
But her constancy's so weak,
She's so wild and apt to wander,
That my jealous heart would break
Should we live one day asunder.
Melting joys about her move, Killing pleasures, wounding blisses; She can dress her eyes in love, And her lips can arm with kisses; Angels listen when she speaks, She's my delight, all mankind's wonder; But my jealous heart would break Should we live one day asunder.

Written by John Wilmot |

I Cannot Change As Others Do

 I cannot change, as others do,
Though you unjustly scorn;
Since that poor swain that sighs for you,
For you alone was born.
No, Phyllis, no, your heart to move A surer way I'll try: And to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on, will still love on, and die.
When, killed with grief, Amintas lies And you to mind shall call, The sighs that now unpitied rise, The tears that vainly fall, That welcome hour that ends this smart Will then begin your pain; For such a faithful tender heart Can never break, can never break in vain.

Written by John Wilmot |

Portsmouths Looking Glass

 Methinks I see you, newly risen
From your embroider'd Bed and pissing,
With studied mien and much grimace,
Present yourself before your glass,
To vanish and smooth o'er those graces,
You rubb'd off in your Night Embraces.

Written by John Wilmot |

Upon His Drinking a Bowl

 Vulcan, contrive me such a cup
As Nestor used of old;
Show all thy skill to trim it up,
Damask it round with gold.
Make it so large that, filled with sack Up to the swelling brim, Vast toasts on the delicious lake Like ships at sea may swim.
Engrave not battle on its cheek: With war I've nought to do; I'm none of those that took Maastricht, Nor Yarmouth leaguer knew.
Let it no name of planets tell, Fixed stars, or constellations; For I am no Sir Sidrophel, Nor none of his relations.
But carve theron a spreading vine, Then add two lovely boys; Their limbs in amorous folds intwine, The type of future joys.
Cupid and Bacchus my saints are, May drink and love still reign, With wine I wash away my cares, And then to cunt again.

Written by John Wilmot |

A Fragment of Seneca Translated

 After Death nothing is, and nothing, death,
The utmost limit of a gasp of breath.
Let the ambitious zealot lay aside His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride; Let slavish souls lay by their fear Nor be concerned which way nor where After this life they shall be hurled.
Dead, we become the lumber of the world, And to that mass of matter shall be swept Where things destroyed with things unborn are kept.
Devouring time swallows us whole.
Impartial death confounds body and soul.
For Hell and the foul fiend that rules God's everlasting fiery jails (Devised by rogues, dreaded by fools), With his grim, grisly dog that keeps the door, Are senseless stories, idle tales, Dreams, whimsey's, and no more.

Written by John Wilmot |

A Satyre on Charles II

 [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 reknown 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.
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.

Written by John Wilmot |

To His Mistress

 Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why
Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny
The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye? 

Without thy light what light remains in me?
Thou art my life; my way, my light's in thee; 
I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.
Thou art my life-if thou but turn away My life's a thousand deaths.
Thou art my way- Without.
thee, Love, I travel not but stray.
My light thou art-without thy glorious sight My eyes are darken'd with eternal night.
My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.
Thou art my way; I wander if thou fly.
Thou art my light; if hid, how blind am I! Thou art my life; if thou withdraw'st, I die.
My eyes are dark and blind, I cannot see: To whom or whither should my darkness flee, But to that light?-and who's that light but thee? If I have lost my path, dear lover, say, Shall I still wander in a doubtful way? Love, shall a lamb of Israel's sheepfold stray? My path is lost, my wandering steps do stray; I cannot go, nor can I safely stay; Whom should I seek but thee, my path, my way? And yet thou turn'st thy face away and fly'st me! And yet I sue for grace and thou deny'st me! Speak, art thou angry, Love, or only try'st me? Thou art the pilgrim's path, the blind man's eye, The dead man's life.
On thee my hopes rely: If I but them remove, I surely die.
Dissolve thy sunbeams, close thy wings and stay! See, see how I am blind, and dead, and stray! -O thou art my life, my light, my way! Then work thy will! If passion bid me flee, My reason shall obey, my wings shall be Stretch'd out no farther than from me to thee!