Smut

Here’s a smutty tidbit from the Second Earl of Rochester:

So a proud bitch does lead about

 Of humble curs the amorous rout,

 Who most obsequiously do hunt

 The savory scent of salt-swoln cunt.

 Some power more patient now relate

 The sense of this surprising fate.

 Gods! that a thing admired by me

 Should fall to so much infamy.

 Had she picked out, to rub her arse on,

 Some stiff-pricked clown or well-hung parson,

 Each job of whose spermatic sluice

 Had filled her cunt with wholesome juice,

 I the proceeding should have praised

 In hope sh’ had quenched a fire I raised.

 Such natural freedoms are but just:

 There’s something generous in mere lust.

 But to turn a damned abandoned jade

 When neither head nor tail persuade;

 To be a whore in understanding,

 A passive pot for fools to spend in!

 The devil played booty, sure, with thee

 To bring a blot on infamy.

 But why am I, of all mankind,

 To so severe a fate designed?

 Ungrateful! Why this treachery

 To humble fond, believing me,

 Who gave you privilege above

 The nice allowances of love?

 Did ever I refuse to bear

 The meanest part your lust could spare?

 When your lewd cunt came spewing home

 Drenched with the seed of half the town,

 My dram of sperm was supped up after

 For the digestive surfeit water.

 Full gorged at another time

 With a vast meal of slime

 Which your devouring cunt had drawn

 From porters’ backs and footmen’s brawn,

 I was content to serve you up

 My ballock-full for your grace cup,

 Nor ever thought it an abuse

 While you had pleasure for excuse –

 You that could make my heart away

 For noise and color, and betray

 The secrets of my tender hours

 To such knight-errant paramours,

 When, leaning on your faithless breast,

 Wrapped in security and rest,

 Soft kindness all my powers did move,

 And reason lay dissolved in love!