I get drunk before seven, and the next thing I do;
I send for my whore, when, for fear of a clap
I fuck in her hand, and spew in her lap;
Then we quarrel and scold, till I fall asleep.
When the jilt growing bold, to my pocket does creep;
Then slily she leaves me, and to revenge the affront
At once both my lass and my money I want.
If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk
What a coyl do I make for the loss of my punk?
I storm, and I roar, and I fall in a rage,
And missing my lass, I bugger my page:
Then crop-sick, all morning I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yearning till eleven again.
(Earl of Rochester)