John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester Quotes

Thus, Statesman-like, I'll saucily impose, And, safe from Danger, valiantly advise; Sheltered in Impotence, urge you to Blows, And, being good for nothing else, be Wise.

Born to myself, I like myself alone, And must conclude my judgment good, or none: For could my sense be naught, how should I know Whether another man's were good or no? Thus I resolve of my own poetry, That 'tis the best; and there's a fame for me. If then I'm happy, what does it advance, Whether to merit due, or arrogance? Oh, but the world will take offence hereby! Why then the world shall suffer for 't, not I. Did eer this saucy world and I agree, To let it have its beastly will on me? Why should my prostituted sense be drawn To every rule their musty customs spawn? But men may censure you; 'tis two to one, Whene'er they censure, they'll be in the wrong. There's not a thing on Earth, that I can name, So foolish, and so false, as common fame. It calls the courtier knave, the plain man rude, Haughty the grave, and the delightful lewd, Impertinent the brisk, morose the sad, Mean the familiar, the reserv'd-one mad. Poor helpless woman is not favour'd more, She's a sly hypocrite, or public whore. Then who the Devil would give this — to be free From th' innocent reproach of infamy These things consider'd, make me (in despite Of idle rumour) keep at home and write.

Lest, once more wandering from that heaven, I fall on some base heart unblest, Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven, And lose my everlasting rest.

The clog of all pleasure, the luggage of life, Is the best can be said for a very good wife.

We have a pretty witty king, Whose word no man relies on; He never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one.

But oh, how slowly minutes roll When absent from her eyes, That feed my love, which is my soul: It languishes and dies.

Dead we become the lumber of the world.

Reason, an Ignis fatuus of the Mind, Which leaves the light of Nature, Sense, behind.

For pointed satire I would Buckhurst choose, The best good man with the worst-natured muse.

So, when my Days of Impotence approach, And I'm by Pox and Wine's unlucky chance Driv'n from the pleasing Billows of debauch On the dull Shore of lazy Temperance;<p>My Pains at least some Respite shall afford While I behold the Battles you maintain When Fleets of Glasses sail about the Board, From whose Broad-sides Volleys of Wit shall rain.

Then Old Age, and Experience, hand in hand, Lead him to death, and make him understand, After a Search so painful, and so long, That all his Life he has been in the wrong.

Here lies our sovereign lord the king, Whose word no man relies on; He never says a foolish thing, Nor ever does a wise one.

Great Negative, how vainly would the Wise Enquire, define, distinguish, teach, devise, Didst thou not stand to point their dull Philosophies?<p>Is, or is not, the Two great Ends of Fate, And, true or false, the Subject of Debate, That perfect, or destroy, the vast Designs of Fate.

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?

Were I, who to my Cost already am One of those strange, prodigious Creatures Man, A Spirit free, to choose for my own Share, What sort of Flesh and Blood I pleas'd to wear, I'd be a Dog, a Monkey, or a Bear, Or any thing, but that vain Animal, Who is so proud of being Rational.