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Best Famous Sport Poems

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

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See also: Best Member Poems

by Andrew Marvell | |

To His Coy Mistress

  Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain.
I would Love you ten years before the Flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honor turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust: The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Thorough the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

by | |

Ballade: In Favour Of Those Called Decadents And Symbolists Translation of Paul Verlaines Poem: Ballade

for Léon Vanier*

(The texts I use for my translations are from: Yves-Alain Favre, Ed.
Paul Verlaine: Œuvres Poétiques Complètes.
Paris: Robert Laffont,1992, XCIX-939p.
) Some few in all this Paris: We live off pride, yet flat broke we’re Even if with the bottle a bit too free We drink above all fresh water Being very sparing when taken with hunger.
With other fine fare and wines of high-estate Likewise with beauty: sour-tempered never.
We are the writers of good taste.
Phoebé when all the cats gray be Highly sharpened to a point much harsher Our bodies nourrished by glory Hell licks its lips and in ambush does cower And with his dart Phoebus pierces us ever The night cradling us through dreamy waste Strewn with seeds of peach beds over.
We are the writers of good taste.
A good many of the best minds rally Holding high Man’s standard: toffee-nosed scoffer And Lemerre* retains with success poetry’s destiny.
More than one poet then helter-skelter Sought to join the rest through the narrow fissure; But Vanier at the very end made haste The only lucky one to assume the rôle of Fisher*.
We are the writers of good taste.
ENVOI Even if our stock exchange tends to dither Princes hold sway: gentle folk and the divining caste.
Whatever one might say or pours forth the preacher, We are the writers of good taste.
*One of Verlaine’s publishers who first published his near-collected works at 19, quai Saint-Michel, Paris-V.
* Alphonse Lemerre (1838-1912) , one of Verlaine’s publishers at 47, Passage Choiseul, Paris, where from 1866 onwards the Parnassians met regularly.
*Vanier first specialised in articles for fishing as a sport.
© T.
Wignesan – Paris,2013

by | |

The Cat And The Fiddle


    Hey, diddle, diddle!
    The cat and the fiddle,
The cow jumped over the moon;
    The little dog laughed
    To see such sport,
And the dish ran away with the spoon.

More great poems below...

by Ben Jonson | |

To Fine Lady Would-Be

Fine madam WOULD-BE, wherefore should you fear,
That love to make so well, a child to bear ?
The world reputes you barren :  but I know
Your pothecary, and his drug, says no.

Is it the pain affrights ?  that's soon forgot.

Or your complexion's loss ?  you have a pot,
That can restore that.
  Will it hurt your feature ?
To make amends, you are thought a wholesome creature.

What should the cause be ?  oh, you live at court ;
And there's both loss of time, and loss of sport,
In a great belly :  Write then on thy womb,
? Of the not born, yet buried, here's the tomb.

by Robert Seymour Bridges | |

To Thos. Floyd

 How fares it, friend, since I by Fate annoy'd 
Left the old home in need of livelier play 
For body and mind? How fare, this many a day, 
The stubborn thews and ageless heart of Floyd? 
If not too well with country sport employ'd, 
Visit my flock, the breezy hill that they 
Choose for their fold; and see, for thence you may, 
From rising walls all roofless yet and void, 
The lovely city, thronging tower and spire, 
The mind of the wide landscape, dreaming deep, 
Grey-silvery in the vale; a shrine where keep 
Memorian hopes their pale celestial fire: 
Like man's immortal conscience of desire, 
The spirit that watcheth in me ev'n in my sleep.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 IF thou wouldst live unruffled by care,
Let not the past torment thee e'er;
If any loss thou hast to rue,
Act as though thou wert born anew;
Inquire the meaning of each day,
What each day means itself will say;
In thine own actions take thy pleasure,
What others do, thou'lt duly treasure;
Ne'er let thy breast with hate be supplied,
And to God the future confide.
----- IF wealth is gone--then something is gone! Quick, make up thy mind, And fresh wealth find.
If honour is gone--then much is gone! Seek glory to find, And people then will alter their mind.
If courage is gone--then all is gone! 'Twere better that thou hadst never been born.
----- HE who with life makes sport, Can prosper never; Who rules himself in nought, Is a slave ever.
MAY each honest effort be Crown'd with lasting constancy.
----- EACH road to the proper end Runs straight on, without a bend.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 WHEN unto thee I sent the page all white,

Instead of first thereon inscribing aught,

The space thou doubtless filledst up in sport.
And sent it me, to make my joy grow bright.
As soon as the blue cover met my sight, As well becomes a woman, quick as thought I tore it open, leaving hidden nought, And read the well-known words of pure delight: MY ONLY BEING! DEAREST HEART! SWEET CHILD! How kindly thou my yearning then didst still With gentle words, enthralling me to thee.
In truth methought I read thy whispers mild Wherewith thou lovingly my soul didst fill, E'en to myself for aye ennobling me.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 A BOY a pigeon once possess'd,
In gay and brilliant plumage dress'd;
He loved it well, and in boyish sport
Its food to take from his mouth he taught,
And in his pigeon he took such pride,
That his joy to others he needs must confide.
An aged fox near the place chanc'd to dwell, Talkative, clever, and learned as well; The boy his society used to prize, Hearing with pleasure his wonders and lies.
"My friend the fox my pigeon must see He ran, and stretch'd 'mongst the bushes lay he "Look, fox, at my pigeon, my pigeon so fair! His equal I'm sure thou hast look'd upon ne'er!" "Let's see!"--The boy gave it.
--"'Tis really not bad; And yet, it is far from complete, I must add.
The feathers, for, instance, how short! 'Tis absurd!" So he set to work straightway to pluck the poor bird.
The boy screamed.
--"Thou must now stronger pinions supply, Or else 'twill be ugly, unable to fly.
"-- Soon 'twas stripp'd--oh, the villain!--and torn all to pieces.
The boy was heart-broken,--and so my tale ceases.
* * * * He who sees in the boy shadow'd forth his own case, Should be on his guard 'gainst the fox's whole race.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 WITHIN a town where parity
According to old form we see,--
That is to say, where Catholic
And Protestant no quarrels pick,
And where, as in his father's day,
Each worships God in his own way,
We Luth'ran children used to dwell,
By songs and sermons taught as well.
The Catholic clingclang in truth Sounded more pleasing to our youth, For all that we encounter'd there, To us seem'd varied, joyous, fair.
As children, monkeys, and mankind To ape each other are inclin'd, We soon, the time to while away, A game at priests resolved to play.
Their aprons all our sisters lent For copes, which gave us great content; And handkerchiefs, embroider'd o'er, Instead of stoles we also wore; Gold paper, whereon beasts were traced, The bishop's brow as mitre graced.
Through house and garden thus in state We strutted early, strutted late, Repeating with all proper unction, Incessantly each holy function.
The best was wanting to the game; We knew that a sonorous ring Was here a most important thing; But Fortune to our rescue came, For on the ground a halter lay; We were delighted, and at once Made it a bellrope for the nonce, And kept it moving all the day; In turns each sister and each brother Acted as sexton to another; All help'd to swell the joyous throng; The whole proceeded swimmingly, And since no actual bell had we, We all in chorus sang, Ding dong! * * * * * Our guileless child's-sport long was hush'd In memory's tomb, like some old lay; And yet across my mind it rush'd With pristine force the other day.
The New-Poetic Catholics In ev'ry point its aptness fix! 1815.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 DAYS full of rapture,

Are ye renew'd ?--
Smile in the sunlight

Mountain and wood?

Streams richer laden

Flow through the dale,
Are these the meadows?

Is this the vale?

Coolness cerulean!

Heaven and height!
Fish crowd the ocean,

Golden and bright.
Birds of gay plumage Sport in the grove, Heavenly numbers Singing above.
Under the verdure's Vigorous bloom, Bees, softly bumming, Juices consume.
Gentle disturbance Quivers in air, Sleep-causing fragrance, Motion so fair.
Soon with more power Rises the breeze, Then in a moment Dies in the trees.
But to the bosom Comes it again.
Aid me, ye Muses, Bliss to sustain! Say what has happen'd Since yester e'en? Oh, ye fair sisters, Her I have seen! 1802.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 'MIDST the noise of merriment and glee,

'Midst full many a sorrow, many a care,
Charlotte, I remember, we remember thee,

How, at evening's hour so fair,
Thou a kindly hand didst reach us,

When thou, in some happy place

Where more fair is Nature s face,

Many a lightly-hidden trace
Of a spirit loved didst teach us.
Well 'tis that thy worth I rightly knew,-- That I, in the hour when first we met, While the first impression fill'd me yet, Call'd thee then a girl both good and true.
Rear'd in silence, calmly, knowing nought, On the world we suddenly are thrown; Hundred thousand billows round us sport; All things charm us--many please alone, Many grieve us, and as hour on hour is stealing, To and fro our restless natures sway; First we feel, and then we find each feeling By the changeful world-stream borne away.
Well I know, we oft within us find Many a hope and many a smart.
Charlotte, who can know our mind? Charlotte, who can know our heart? Ah! 'twould fain be understood, 'twould fain o'erflow In some creature's fellow-feelings blest, And, with trust, in twofold measure know All the grief and joy in Nature's breast.
Then thine eye is oft around thee cast, But in vain, for all seems closed for ever.
Thus the fairest part of life is madly pass'd Free from storm, but resting never: To thy sorrow thou'rt to-day repell'd By what yesterday obey'd thee.
Can that world by thee be worthy held Which so oft betray'd thee? Which, 'mid all thy pleasures and thy pains, Lived in selfish, unconcern'd repose? See, the soul its secret cells regains, And the heart--makes haste to close.
Thus found I thee, and gladly went to meet thee; "She's worthy of all love!" I cried, And pray'd that Heaven with purest bliss might greet thee, Which in thy friend it richly hath supplied.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 AS a butterfly renew'd,

When in life I breath'd my last,

To the spots my flight I wing,

Scenes of heav'nly rapture past,

Over meadows, to the spring,
Round the hill, and through the wood.
Soon a tender pair I spy, And I look down from my seat On the beauteous maiden's head-- When embodied there I meet All I lost as soon as dead, Happy as before am I.
Him she clasps with silent smile, And his mouth the hour improves, Sent by kindly Deities; First from breast to mouth it roves, Then from mouth to hands it flies, And I round him sport the while.
And she sees me hov'ring near; Trembling at her lovers rapture, Up she springs--I fly away, "Dearest! let's the insect capture Come! I long to make my prey Yonder pretty little dear!" 1767-9.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 MANY a day and night my bark stood ready laden;
Waiting fav'ring winds, I sat with true friends round me,
Pledging me to patience and to courage,
In the haven.
And they spoke thus with impatience twofold: "Gladly pray we for thy rapid passage, Gladly for thy happy voyage; fortune In the distant world is waiting for thee, In our arms thoult find thy prize, and love too, When returning.
" And when morning came, arose an uproar, And the sailors' joyous shouts awoke us; All was stirring, all was living, moving, Bent on sailing with the first kind zephyr.
And the sails soon in the breeze are swelling, And the sun with fiery love invites us; Fill'd the sails are, clouds on high are floating, On the shore each friend exulting raises Songs of hope, in giddy joy expecting Joy the voyage through, as on the morn of sailing, And the earliest starry nights so radiant.
But by God-sent changing winds ere long he's driven Sideways from the course he had intended, And he feigns as though he would surrender, While he gently striveth to outwit them, To his goal, e'en when thus press'd, still faithful.
But from out the damp grey distance rising, Softly now the storm proclaims its advent, Presseth down each bird upon the waters, Presseth down the throbbing hearts of mortals.
And it cometh.
At its stubborn fury, Wisely ev'ry sail the seaman striketh; With the anguish-laden ball are sporting Wind and water.
And on yonder shore are gather'd standing, Friends and lovers, trembling for the bold one: "Why, alas, remain'd he here not with us! Ah, the tempest! Cast away by fortune! Must the good one perish in this fashion? Might not he perchance.
Ye great immortals!" Yet he, like a man, stands by his rudder; With the bark are sporting wind and water, Wind and water sport not with his bosom: On the fierce deep looks he, as a master,-- In his gods, or shipwreck'd, or safe landed, Trusting ever.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 THE bed of flowers

Loosens amain,
The beauteous snowdrops

Droop o'er the plain.
The crocus opens Its glowing bud, Like emeralds others, Others, like blood.
With saucy gesture Primroses flare, And roguish violets, Hidden with care; And whatsoever There stirs and strives, The Spring's contented, If works and thrives.
'Mongst all the blossoms That fairest are, My sweetheart's sweetness Is sweetest far; Upon me ever Her glances light, My song they waken, My words make bright, An ever open And blooming mind, In sport, unsullied, In earnest, kind.
Though roses and lilies By Summer are brought, Against my sweetheart Prevails he nought.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 WHEN the primeval
All-holy Father
Sows with a tranquil hand
From clouds, as they roll,
Bliss-spreading lightnings
Over the earth,
Then do I kiss the last
Hem of his garment,
While by a childlike awe
Fiil'd is my breast.
For with immortals Ne'er may a mortal Measure himself.
If he soar upwards And if he touch With his forehead the stars, Nowhere will rest then His insecure feet, And with him sport Tempest and cloud.
Though with firm sinewy Limbs he may stand On the enduring Well-grounded earth, All he is ever Able to do, Is to resemble The oak or the vine.
Wherein do gods Differ from mortals? In that the former See endless billows Heaving before them; Us doth the billow Lift up and swallow, So that we perish.
Small is the ring Enclosing our life, And whole generations Link themselves firmly On to existence's Chain never-ending.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe | |


 BUSH and vale thou fill'st again

With thy misty ray,
And my spirit's heavy chain

Castest far away.
Thou dost o'er my fields extend Thy sweet soothing eye, Watching like a gentle friend, O'er my destiny.
Vanish'd days of bliss and woe Haunt me with their tone, Joy and grief in turns I know, As I stray alone.
Stream beloved, flow on! flow on! Ne'er can I be gay! Thus have sport and kisses gone, Truth thus pass'd away.
Once I seem'd the lord to be Of that prize so fair! Now, to our deep sorrow, we Can forget it ne'er.
Murmur, stream, the vale along, Never cease thy sighs; Murmur, whisper to my song Answering melodies! When thou in the winter's night Overflow'st in wrath, Or in spring-time sparklest bright, As the buds shoot forth.
He who from the world retires, Void of hate, is blest; Who a friend's true love inspires, Leaning on his breast! That which heedless man ne'er knew, Or ne'er thought aright, Roams the bosom's labyrinth through, Boldly into night.

by James Henry Leigh Hunt | |

The Glove and The Lions

 King Francis was a hearty king, and loved a royal sport,
And one day as his lions fought, sat looking on the court;
The nobles filled the benches, and the ladies in their pride,
And 'mongst them sat the Count de Lorge, with one for whom he sighed:
And truly 'twas a gallant thing to see that crowning show,
Valour and love, and a king above, and the royal beasts below.
Ramped and roared the lions, with horrid laughing jaws; They bit, they glared, gave blows like beams, a wind went with their paws; With wallowing might and stifled roar they rolled on one another; Till all the pit with sand and mane was in a thunderous smother; The bloody foam above the bars came whisking through the air; Said Francis then, "Faith, gentlemen, we're better here than there.
" De Lorge's love o'erheard the King, a beauteous lively dame With smiling lips and sharp bright eyes, which always seemed the same; She thought, the Count my lover is brave as brave can be; He surely would do wondrous things to show his love of me; King, ladies, lovers, all look on; the occasion is divine; I'll drop my glove, to prove his love; great glory will be mine.
She dropped her glove, to prove his love, then looked at him and smiled; He bowed, and in a moment leaped among the lions wild: The leap was quick, return was quick, he has regained his place, Then threw the glove, but not with love, right in the lady's face.
"By God!" said Francis, "rightly done!" and he rose from where he sat: "No love," quoth he, "but vanity, sets love a task like that.

by Sir Henry Newbolt | |

A Letter From the Front

 I was out early to-day, spying about 
From the top of a haystack -- such a lovely morning -- 
And when I mounted again to canter back 
I saw across a field in the broad sunlight 
A young Gunner Subaltern, stalking along 
With a rook-rifle held at the read, and -- would you believe it? -- 
A domestic cat, soberly marching beside him.
So I laughed, and felt quite well disposed to the youngster, And shouted out "the top of the morning" to him, And wished him "Good sport!" -- and then I remembered My rank, and his, and what I ought to be doing: And I rode nearer, and added, "I can only suppose You have not seen the Commander-in-Chief's order Forbidding English officers to annoy their Allies By hunting and shooting.
" But he stood and saluted And said earnestly, "I beg your pardon, Sir, I was only going out to shoot a sparrow To feed my cat with.
" So there was the whole picture, The lovely early morning, the occasional shell Screeching and scattering past us, the empty landscape, -- Empty, except for the young Gunner saluting, And the cat, anxiously watching his every movement.
I may be wrong, or I may have told it badly, But it struck me as being extremely ludicrous.

by Sir John Suckling | |

I prithee spare me gentle boy

 I prithee spare me gentle boy,
Press me no more for that slight toy,
That foolish trifle of an heart;
I swear it will not do its part,
Though thou dost thine, employ'st thy pow'r and art.
For through long custom it has known The little secrets, and is grown Sullen and wise, will have its will, And like old hawks pursues that still That makes least sport, flies only where't can kill.
Some youth that has not made his story, Will think perchance the pain's the glory, And mannerly sit out love's feast; I shall be carving of the best, Rudely call for the last course 'fore the rest.
And oh when once that course is past, How short a time the feast doth last; Men rise away and scarce say grace, Or civilly once thank the face That did invite, but seek another place.

by Sir John Suckling | |

A Supplement of an Imperfect Copy of Verses of Mr. William

 One of her hands one of her cheeks lay under,
Cosening the pillow of a lawful kiss,
Which therefore swell'd, and seem'd to part asunder,
As angry to be robb'd of such a bliss!
The one look'd pale and for revenge did long,
While t'other blush'd, 'cause it had done the wrong.
Out of the bed the other fair hand was On a green satin quilt, whose perfect white Look'd like a daisy in a field of grass, And show'd like unmelt snow unto the sight; There lay this pretty perdue, safe to keep The rest o' th' body that lay fast asleep.
Her eyes (and therefore it was night), close laid Strove to imprison beauty till the morn: But yet the doors were of such fine stuff made, That it broke through, and show'd itself in scorn, Throwing a kind of light about the place, Which turn'd to smiles still, as't came near her face.
Her beams, which some dull men call'd hair, divided, Part with her cheeks, part with her lips did sport.
But these, as rude, her breath put by still; some Wiselier downwards sought, but falling short, Curled back in rings, and seemed to turn again To bite the part so unkindly held them in.

by Edgar Albert Guest | |

On Quitting

 How much grit do you think you've got?
Can you quit a thing that you like a lot?
You may talk of pluck; it's an easy word,
And where'er you go it is often heard;
But can you tell to a jot or guess
Just how much courage you now possess?
You may stand to trouble and keep your grin,
But have you tackled self-discipline?
Have you ever issued commands to you
To quit the things that you like to do,
And then, when tempted and sorely swayed,
Those rigid orders have you obeyed?

Don't boast of your grit till you've tried it out,
Nor prate to men of your courage stout,
For it's easy enough to retain a grin
In the face of a fight there's a chance to win,
But the sort of grit that is good to own
Is the stuff you need when you're all alone.
How much grit do you think you've got? Can you turn from joys that you like a lot? Have you ever tested yourself to know How far with yourself your will can go? If you want to know if you have grit, Just pick out a joy that you like, and quit.
It's bully sport and it's open fight; It will keep you busy both day and night; For the toughest kind of a game you'll find Is to make your body obey your mind.
And you never will know what is meant by grit Unless there's something you've tried to quit.

by Craig Raine | |

City Gent

 On my desk, a set of labels
or a synopsis of leeks,
blanched by the sun
and trailing their roots

like a watering can.
Beyond and below, diminished by distance, a taxi shivers at the lights: a shining moorhen with an orange nodule set over the beak, taking a passenger under its wing.
I turn away, confront the cuckold hatstand at bay in the corner, and eavesdrop (bless you!) on a hay-fever of brakes.
My Caran d'Ache are sharp as the tips of an iris and the four-tier file is spotted with rust: a study of plaice by a Japanese master, ochres exquisitely bled.
Instead of office work, I fish for complements and sport a pencil behind each ear, a bit of a devil, or trap the telephone awkwardly under my chin like Richard Crookback, crying, A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse! but only to myself, ironically: the tube is semi-stiff with stallion whangs, the chairman's Mercedes has windscreen wipers like a bird's broken tongue, and I am perfectly happy to see your head, quick round the door like a dryad, as I pretend to be Ovid in exile, composing Tristia and sad for the shining, the missed, the muscular beach.

by Edmund Spenser | |

Sonnet LXXX

 AFter so long a race as I haue run
Through Faery land, which those six books co[m]pile
giue leaue to rest me being halfe fordonne,
and gather to my selfe new breath awhile.
Then as a steed refreshed after toyle, out of my prison I will breake anew: and stoutly will that second worke assoyle, with strong endeuour and attention dew.
Till then giue leaue to me in pleasant mew, to sport my muse and sing my loues sweet praise: the contemplation of whose heauenly hew, my spirit to an higher pitch will rayse.
But let her prayses yet be low and meane, fit for the handmayd of the Faery Queene.

by Edmund Spenser | |

Sonnet X

 VNrighteous Lord of loue what law is this,
That me thou makest thus tormented be:
the whiles she lordeth in licentious blisse
of her freewill, scorning both thee and me.
See how the Tyrannesse doth ioy to see the huge massacres which her eyes do make: and humbled harts brings captiues vnto thee, that thou of them mayst mightie vengeance take.
But her proud hart doe thou a little shake and that high look, with which she doth comptroll all this worlds pride bow to a baser make, and al her faults in thy black booke enroll.
That I may laugh at her in equall sort, as she doth laugh at me & makes my pain her sport.

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.