The Complete Poems

Now piercèd is her virgin zone; She feels the foe within it. She hears a broken amorous groan, The panting lover's fainting moan, Just in the happy minute.

Bawdy in thoughts, precise in words, Ill-natured though a whore, Her belly is a bag of turds, And her cunt a common shore.

Then, if to make your ruin more, You'll peevishly be coy, Die with the scandal of a whore And never know the joy.

This signior is sound, safe, ready, and dumb As ever was candle, carrot, or thumb; Then away with these nasty devices, and show How you rate the just merits of Signior Dildo.

God bless our good and gracious King, Whose promise none relies on; Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one.

Man differs more from man than man from beast

A kind of losing loadum is their game, Where the worst writer has the greatest fame.

All monarchs I hate, and the thrones they sit on, From the hector of France to the cully of Britain.

Nothing suits worse with vice than want of sense

How blest was the created state Of man and woman, ere they fell, Compared to our unhappy fate: We need not fear another hell.

Merely for safety, after fame we thirst, For all men would be cowards if they durst.