To offset the lofty values of Shelley and Barthes
Song
But all love’s soft, yet mighty powers,
It is a thing unfit
That men should fuck in time of flowers,
Or when the smock’s beshit.Fair nasty nymph, be clean and kind,
And all my joys restore
By using paper still behind
And spunges for before.My spotless flames can ne’er decay
If after every close,
My smoking prick escape the fray
Without a bloody nose.If thou wouldst have me true, be wise
And take to cleanly sinning;
None but fresh lovers’ pricks can rise
At Phyllis in foul linen.John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, c. Sept. 1680.
Now that’s a, er, grounded view of love. But what would you expect from the first poet to publish a poem containing the word fuck.
