Lord John Wilmot
Wilmot was born at Ditchley in Oxfordshire, England. He was the son of a Cavalier hero and his deeply religious wife. By the age of eighteen he had already been involved in a number of affairs, one of which resulted in the birth of an illegitimate daughter. In 1665 he kidnapped the much sought after heiress Elizabeth Malet, whom he later married. His rakish lifestyle and wit earned him the favour of Charles II and he remained a favourite of the king even though he was banished from the court on a number of occasions.
Wilmot's poetry often expresses a feeling of disgust at the futile nature of his life, a life he seemed to repent for during its last year, whilst being cared for by... more »
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Lord John Wilmot Poems
To His Mistress
Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye?
A Song of a Young Lady to Her Ancient Lo...
Ancient Person, for whom I All the flattering youth defy, Long be it e'er thou grow old, Aching, shaking, crazy cold;
Love and Life
All my past life is mine no more, The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams giv'n o'er, Whose images are kept in store
You ladies of merry England Who have been to kiss the Duchess's hand, Pray, did you not lately observe in the show A noble Italian called Signior Dildo?
Portsmouth's Looking Glass
Methinks I see you, newly risen From your embroider'd Bed and pissing, With studied mien and much grimace, Present yourself before your glass,
A Fragment of Seneca Translated
After Death nothing is, and nothing, death, The utmost limit of a gasp of breath. Let the ambitious zealot lay aside His hopes of heaven, whose faith is but his pride;
My Dear Mistress Has a Heart
My dear mistress has a heart Soft as those kind looks she gave me, When with love's resistless art, And her eyes, she did enslave me;
I Cannot Change, As Others Do
I cannot change, as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain that sighs for you, For you alone was born.
All My Past Life...
All my past life is mine no more, The flying hours are gone, Like transitory dreams given o'er, Whose images are kept in store
A Woman's Honour
Love bade me hope, and I obeyed; Phyllis continued still unkind: Then you may e'en despair, he said, In vain I strive to change her mind.
The Disabled Debauchee
As some brave admiral, in former war, Deprived of force, but pressed with courage still, Two rival fleets appearing from afar, Crawls to the top of an adjacent hill;
The Platonic Lady
I could love thee till I die, Would'st thou love me modestly, And ne'er press, whilst I live, For more than willingly I would give:
Poems to Mulgrave and Scroope
Deare Friend. I heare this Towne does soe abound, With sawcy Censurers, that faults are found,
I cannot change, as others do, Though you unjustly scorn; Since that poor swain, that sighs for you For you alone was born.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
To His Mistress
Why dost thou shade thy lovely face? O why
Does that eclipsing hand of thine deny
The sunshine of the Sun's enlivening eye?
Without thy light what light remains in me?
Thou art my life; my way, my light's in thee;
I live, I move, and by thy beams I see.
Thou art my life-if thou but turn away
My life's a thousand deaths. Thou art my way-
Without.thee, Love, I travel not but stray.
My light thou art-without thy glorious sight
My eyes are darken'd with eternal night.
My Love, thou art my way, my life, my light.
Thou art my way; I wander if ...