John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester

“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.”

“Before I got married I had six theories about bringing up children; now I have six children and no theories.”

“Love, the most generous passion of the mind
The softest refuge innocence can find”

“When my young master's worship comes to town,
From pedagogue and mother just fit free,
The heir and hopes of a great famiiy;
Who with strong beer and beef the country rules,
And ever since the Conquest have been fools;
And now, with careful prospect to maintain
This character, lest crossing of the strain
Should mend the booby breed, his friends provide
A cousin of his own to be his bride...”

“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.”

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

“Whilst the misguided Follower climbs with Pain,
Mountains of Whimsies, heapt in his own Brain,
Stumbling from Thought to Thought, falls headlong down
Into Doubt's boundless Sea, where like to drown,
Books bear him up a-while, and make him try
To swim with Bladders of Philosophy.”

“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.”

“For Wits are treated just like Common Whores;
First they're enjoy'd, and then kickt out of Doors.”

“For all Men would be Cowards if they durst:
And Honesty's against all common Sense.”

“Most Men are Cowards, all Men should be Knaves.
The Difference lies, as far as I can see,
Not in the thing it self, but the Degree.”

“But a meek humble Man of modest Sense,
Who, Preaching Peace, does practice Continence;
Whose pious life's a proof he does believe,
Mysterious Truths, which no Man can conceive.
If upon Earth there dwell such God-like Men,
I'll here Recant my Paradox to them;
Adore those Shrines of Virtue, homage pay,
And, with the rabble world, their Laws obey.
If such there are, yet grant me This at least,
Man differs more from Man, than Man from Beast.”

“If you have a grateful heart (which is a miracle amongst you statesmen), show it by directing the bearer to the best wine in town, and pray let not this highest point of sacred friendship be performed slightly, but go about it with all due deliberation and care, as holy priests to sacrifice, or as discreet thieves to the wary performance of burglary and shop-lifting. Let your well-discerning palate (the best judge about you) travel from cellar to cellar and then from piece to piece till it has lighted on wine fit for its noble choice and my approbation.”

“The world appears like a great family,
Whose lord, oppressed with pride and poverty,
(That to the few great bounty he may show)
Is fain to starve the numerous train below.”

“Dead we become the lumber of the world.”

“It is a good world to live in,
To lend, or to spend, or to give in;
But to beg or to borrow, or to get a man's own,
It is the very worst world that ever was known.”

“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.”

“A merry monarch, scandalous and poor.”

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

“Angels listen when she speaks:
She 's my delight, all mankind's wonder;
But my jealous heart would break
Should we live one day asunder.”