The perhaps last speakings of John Wilmot. Earl of Rochester upon his death bed to divers ghosts and relationships.

Dreary dreams of life gone by

sip the dust right out your eye

laggard rig the lives gone past

dip your drink to make it last

colour sweet a prime connived

lick the stamp of phoenix’d fly

test this stump of rotted wood

make it hold what evil should

Fish the wish of comic taste

know the singing of true waste

flick a spite at chronic wit

charge the going rates that fit

deal in sugars of sweet root

as all romantic not to suit

Realistic lies the curl

of hedonistic pride unfurl’d

Maidens joy think you best

lie her breath across thy chest

Breast confined and soft sweet gown

punctuate a prickly frown

Happy is the soul that steers

many men she now bless’d cheers

Hoping for a rigid poke

slippery wings and heating choke

Ah, what you think, but I

Comment in the dark now sly

for oft as I then trimmed my wick

lest left single become this stick

For my dearest wish is this

that you see this piece of piss

as a front for all concerned

as so many women learned

Oh, forgetting what I am

disregard the petty sham

that controlled this once poor wretch

and allowed his plea to stretch

from riveting to blood conceived

bless the haunches of the breed

list this ship to shallow youth

off to find the land’s lost truth

What I am is no concern

you may thus pray that I will burn

but whatever outcomes this

As I stink of syphilis

dreary dreams are all that pass

for my waking sounds at last

For I’m dead now hear me who

and this wreck no longer crew.