On Lord Rochester - A poem

 Nb: If you don't want to wade through the preamble just scroll down and read the poem, it starts where the typeface changes.

This is a poem I wrote after doing my extended essay on Lord Rochester for my degree. I hope that is does not alienate too many of you.
Apart from his fame,wealth, intelligence, good looks, way with women, bravery and spiteful humour his biography I like to think, has parallels with my life; drunkard, sometime rebel and depressive.
Graham Greene wrote a book about him called Lord Rochester's Monkey. It was self censored/abridged because of the nature of Rochester's poetry. The monkey referred to was taken from a portrait of Rochester baiting a monkey with laurels, the monkey was alleged to be Dryden whom Rochester hated. He is my 'Poxy Laureate, Sniffing and Snapping Round the Kings Throne', in this poem.
Even in the early editions of David Vieth,  another of his biographers, who wrote extensively about Rochester had to abridge, and censor some, if not most, of his poetry so that his books could be published. This was pre the publication of Lady Chatterly; and no servants were harmed in the publication of either tome. The later biographer, Jeremy Lamb ( a good Goldsmiths' man)  faced no such qualms or restrictions in his book So Idle A Rogue.

A Ramble In St James' Park is one of my great favourites:

Much wine had passed, with grave discourse Of who fucks who, and who does worse (Such as you usually do hear From those that diet at the Bear), When I, who still take care to see
Drunkenness relieved by lechery, Went out into St. James's Park To cool my head and fire my heart.....

It is not the St James' Park that modern Londoners know and love, but a haven of public fucking; dogging in modern terms, and prostitution.
Rochester ran away with and married a wealthy courtier called Elizabeth Malet. On the orders of Charles II he was arrested in Uxbridge whilst attempting to flee to his home in Oxfordshire. Charles was aggrieved that Rochester had not asked him for Elizabeth Malet's hand in marriage; a breach of Court protocol. I often muse that he might have been arrested underneath the ancient colonnaded portico that stands in the middle of Uxbridge High Street opposite the Tube entrance. Its other claim to 'fame' was that it featured in a Durex advert in the early 80s.
Some of you might remember my profile was of a mountebank; a scoundrel doctor that sold patent remedies to fools. That was one of Rochester's many disguises and his piss take on society.
Rochester was part of Charles II court and a thorn in Charles' side often pointing out in a poem the King's failings and indiscretions. The Restoration provided poets like Rochester a platform for their scurrilous and often filthy poetry; but Rochester was the master at this type of poem:

Here lies our sovereign lord the King,

Whose word no man relies on.

He never said a foolish thing,

Nor ever did a wise one.

He died in 1680 aged 33, he lived ten of my lifetimes in that short lifetime; he not only fought in the Dutch Wars, wrote poems, but also drank heavily and swived with great vigour.

Rochester's earliest incarnation in theatre was as Dorimant in Etheridge's Man Of Mode. Johnny Depp later played Rochester in the film The Libertine  in 2004. It was fairly accurate depiction, but nevertheless it is good to see your 'hero' depicted in a film.....

My poem is at the end of his life as he lay on his deathbed....... a rebel to the very end.
Enough.
Read on.
I hope you enjoy it.

On Rochester

Here I lay,

Lie or Lay,

An Idle Rogue;

Some Men May Say,

My body wrapped in cere cloths,

I’m Pissing blood,

And Spitting Bile:

In the Mortal Agony,

Of not Knowing,

Whether I meet my God,

Or Another,

Or go,

As Some Men Say,

Burning: Straight To Hell.

Whilst the Damned,

Black-Frocked Bishop Burnet,

Flaps around My Death Bed,

Taking My Confession,

Like a Crow round Carrion,

He Faithfully Hopes,

Unwisely,

Say I,

To Pluck my Soul,

Like some tasty Morsel,

From this Rotting,

Putrid, Stinking, Flesh;

Confessing He Says,

My Idleness, Lasciviousness and Lust,

He Assures me will,

Secure my place in His Heaven.

Hell,

I Do Not Agree,

But,

I’ll String this Foolish Man along,

‘Til Death takes my release;

“God’s Teeth” I Cry,

And He Like the Confessor,

He purports to be,

Cries:

“My Lord He is Within Thee”

And Still,

Despite his Godly exhortations,

The Chancres and Ulcers still bite:

Like some Poxy Laureate,

Sniffing and Snapping

‘Round a King’s Throne;

Painfully Making my Waking,

Dying hours,

A Hell-filled Misery;

With his Damned,

Obsequious, Still Born, Poetry.

My King,

Have I not been Good to thee?

This Good Life is mine no more;

Burnet’s God Takes Me,

To His God I Plead: Please Save Me,

To His God I Plead: Please Love Me,

Hell’s Teeth,

I recant,

My God Do Not Take Me,

Lord, His God;

Take Me

Yet I Still Do Not accept thee,

My Lord,

Mine Own God,

Bishop Burnet’s God,

Take Me,

And From this Corporeal pain free me.

Hell,

All of This Life’s Sweetest Pleasures,

Have been Mine,

And Yet:

They have not been Mine Alone,

But All of Earth’s Mankind,

God,

I’m only Thirty Three,

And for All My Mortal Sins,

Jesus,

Help Me,

For Your lack of Sin,

I Face My Death Seemingly,

With Burnet's didactic Guidance,

In Consonance with Thee.

For those with an enquiring mind:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Wilmot,_2nd_Earl_of_Rochester
is a good start.