The Debauchee

I rise at eleven, I dine about two

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)