In the isle of Great Britain long since famous grown | |
For breeding the best cunts in Christendom, | |
There reigns, and oh, long may he reign and thrive, | |
The easiest prince and best-bred man alive. | |
| 5 | Him no ambition moves to seek renown |
Like the French fool, to wander up and down | |
Starving his subjects, hazarding his crown. | |
Peace is his aim, his gentleness is such, | |
And love he loves, for he loves fucking much. | |
| 10 | Nor are his high desires above his strength, |
His sceptre and his prick are of a length; | |
And she that plays with one may sway the other | |
And make him little wiser than his brother. | |
I hate all monarchs and the thrones they sit on, | |
| 15 | From the hector of France to the cully of Britain. |
Poor prince, thy prick, like thy buffoons at court, | |
It governs thee, because it makes thee sport. | |
’Tis sure the sauciest prick that e’er did swive, | |
The proudest, peremptoriest prick alive. | |
| 20 | hough safety, law, religion, life lay on’t, |
’Twould break through all to make its way to cunt. | |
Restless he rolls about from whore to whore, | |
A merry monarch, scandalous and poor. | |
To Carwell, the most dear of all his dears, | |
| 25 | The sure relief of his declining years, |
To love so well, and to be loved so late. | |
For when in her he settles well his tarse, | |
Yet his dull, graceless ballocks hang an arse. | |
| 30 | This you’d believe, had I but time to tell y’ |
The pain it costs to poor, laborious Nelly, | |
While she employs hands, fingers, lips, and thighs, | |
Ere she can raise the member she enjoys. |