A fragement, supposedly written by a poet named "Anon" or "Onon" in the late 16th century. If one is able to ignore the misogynistic undertones, this lewd bit of scribbling is quite amusing on a purely purile level.
Enjoy...
"Imagination! Potent Sprite
That brings to every yearning Wight
What most he wants, and instantly!
Imagination! Let me see
Discovered in thy Sacred Glass
The Image of that Perfect Lass
Intended from the Flood for me,
My lawful wedded Wife to be!
She died a thousand Year Ago?
Will not be born till Hell sees Snow?
I'll wed her yet in Fancy's Bow'r
Enjoy her, ev'ry Leisure Hour;
Build her a House or Mansion fair
Of Substance thinner than the Air,
And solitary , doubled be
By blessed possibility!
Art thou a Separated Twin?
Then find thy Better Half within
And join in Union Sphericall
Thyself to self, as Plato's Ball.
No ancient Goody weighs thy Bed;
Betrothed art daily, nightly wed.
Meek as upon her Wedding Night.
Forever young, though thou grow old,
Never jaded, never cold.
Or wouldst thou have no single She,
But Spouses in Plurality?
The Sultan's, in his Hareem strait,
A Blackamoor before the Gate?
Or base Arabian's, kept in Tents?
Thou hast their Choice, but not th'Expense.
'Tis said that Men who waste their Seed
Toward their Coffins quickly speed;
I say the thing that shortens Life
Is an unsympathetic Wife.
So to our Couch let us Retire;
A Cup of Wine we may require;
To take the Air our Friend we bid
Who in the Dark all day has hid!
Then gently, as with Bird in Hand
Or Babe in Arms, we help him stand -
See how he leaps, a Lapdog he,
Eager for a Sport with thee!
What wonder's this, and Magick too,
His Transformation at thy Cue!
His Helmet lifted, and his Sword -
Th'appendage now becomes the Lord!
The Turkey-wattle now an Arm!
What Pow'r! What Strength, for Good or Harm!
And if he droop or if he flag,
Weaken or tire, fail or sag,
Feed him on thy Fancy's food,
Victuals rich as though think'st good!
Haste thee, Thought, and bring with thee
Emblems of Lubricity:
Bums and Quims and wanton Wiles
Beds and Cocks and nether Smiles!
Now shake him well! Now grind the mill!
Punish the boy and make him spill!
Thy Teeth are grit, thy Shanks a-tremble,
A snarling Beast thou may'st resemble,
Yet mak'st Thanksgiving in thy Moan
And Gratulations in thy Groan
As from the Fundament arises
At last the Bliss that still surprizes!
Ah lovely is the Fruit thereof,
The Forment and the Gum of Love:
Do not despise nor in Disgust
Turn from the Product of thy Lust,
But stop t'admire. This is the Stuff
The Ballocks brewed, one Drop enough
A Man to make, if baked inside
The Oven of a Fleshy Bride,
Nine months' thence t'emerge a Child
Puking, shrieking, red and wild.
He will grow up to cut a Purse,
To die of Drink or something worse -
A Gibbet, or a Pauper's Grave.
What Griefs, what Troubles thou dost save!
Wash but thy Hand, and go thy Way,
Free to conceive another Day.
Go all to Altar and to Woe
I shall not the Greenwood go.
My Fancy free I'll ever keep
I have not sown, I shall not Reap.
The Devil and the World enmesh
The Anchorite who hates the Flesh.
The Flesh is we and we are it,
Its Hunger, Fevers, and its Shite.
Then let's be glad we perpetrate
The little Sins and not the great:
Better than Pride, or Anger pure,
Better than Envy green for sure,
Better than all the Sins of Mind,
Is Lust of the unproductive kind:
Blameless, fruitless, bland and free,
A Rose without a Thorn for thee."
