I rise at eleven, I dine about two,
I get
drunk before seven; and the next thing I do,
I
send for my whore, when for fear of a
clap,
I
spend in her hand, and I
spew in her lap.
Then we
quarrel and
scold, 'till I fall fast asleep,
When the
bitch, growing bold, to my
pocket does creep;
Then slyly she leaves me, and, to revenge the affront,
At once she bereaves me of
money and
cunt.
If by chance then I wake,
hot-headed and
drunk,
What a coil do I make for the loss of my
punk!
I storm and I roar, and I fall in a
rage,
And
missing my whore, I bugger my page.
Then, crop-sick all morning, I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yawning 'till eleven again.
--
John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester