#johnwilmot

[churchofsatannews]

Count MoriVond performs: "A Satire on Charles II"

Count MoriVond performs: “A Satire on Charles II”

Count MoriVond“A Satire on Charles II” written by the 2nd Earl of Rochester, John Wilmot. A theatrical lambasting of the reign of King Charles, the 2nd. An iconic figure, the Stuart… so much so that I’ve decided to dress as the merry monarch in this buffoonery-laden spoof. Mad Earl. Merry Monarch. The Merry Gang….…

[countmorivond]

https://www.redbubble.com/people/MoriVond/

[ceejayheff]

the imperfect enjoyment

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms, I filled with love, and she all over charms; Both equally inspired with eager fire, Melting through kindness, flaming in desire. With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace, She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face. Her nimble tongue, love’s lesser lightning, played Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed Swift orders that I should prepare to throw The all-dissolving thunderbolt below. My fluttering soul, sprung with the pointed kiss, Hangs hovering o’er her balmy brinks of bliss. But whilst her busy hand would guide that part Which should convey my soul up to her heart, In liquid raptures I dissolve all o’er, Melt into sperm, and spend at every pore. A touch from any part of her had done ’t: Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.    Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise, And from her body wipes the clammy joys, When, with a thousand kisses wandering o’er My panting bosom, “Is there then no more?” She cries. “All this to love and rapture’s due; Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?”    But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive, To show my wished obedience vainly strive: I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive. Eager desires confound my first intent, Succeeding shame does more success prevent, And rage at last confirms me impotent. Ev’n her fair hand, which might bid heat return To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn, Applied to my dear cinder, warms no more Than fire to ashes could past flames restore. Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry, A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie. This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried, With virgin blood ten thousand maids has dyed, Which nature still directed with such art That it through every cunt reached every heart— Stiffly resolved, ’twould carelessly invade Woman or man, nor ought its fury stayed: Where’er it pierced, a cunt it found or made— Now languid lies in this unhappy hour, Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.    Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame, False to my passion, fatal to my fame, Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove So true to lewdness, so untrue to love? What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore Didst thou e’er fail in all thy life before? When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way, With what officious haste doest thou obey! Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets, But if his king or country claim his aid, The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head; Ev’n so thy brutal valor is displayed, Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade, But when great Love the onset does command, Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar’st not stand. Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most, Through all the town a common fucking post, On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt As hogs on gates do rub themselves and grunt, Mayst thou to ravenous chancres be a prey, Or in consuming weepings waste away; May strangury and stone thy days attend; May’st thou never piss, who didst refuse to spend When all my joys did on false thee depend.   And may ten thousand abler pricks agree   To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

John Wilmot

[quotesofthedaycom]

Quote of the day for Wednesday, September 18, 2019

[earlymodwomenwriters-blog]

“Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove/ So true to lewdness, so untrue to love? / What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore/ Didst thou e’er fail in all thy life before?” -from “The Imperfect Enjoyment” By John Wilmot #JohnWilmot #earlymodernenglish #love

[wheel-of-fish]

Pharoga fic masterlist

Feel free to suggest more! Fics are listed alphabetically by author.

ghostwritten2

A Mirror in the Palm of Your Hand: The story takes place after both Erik and the Persian are established in Paris, but before Erik has met Christine. (Rated M)

hopsjollyhigh (@hopsjollyhigh)

His Hair: Strange things matter most to Erik, but at least the Daroga attempts to understand. Canon era, set in Persia. (Rated T)

Learned Helplessness: Erik has done a great deal of harm in the past day, and a hurt Daroga demands to know why. Persia-era, pre-established Erik/Daroga relationship, cw for drug use and some reasonably graphic violence. (Rated T)

JohnWilmot

A Wind Chime: Erik and Nadir have both changed more than they realized. (Rated M)

LittleLongHairedOutlaw (@littlelonghairedoutlaw)

Baisemain: The Daroga soothes an anxious Erik at the premiere of his latest opera. (Rated K+)

Champagne, Kisses, and More: Erik and the Daroga are celebrating the tenth anniversary of the night they got together, and kissing leads to much more. (Rated M)

Defender: An overwrought Erik is drugged to sleep, and the Daroga is there to take care of him when the nightmares come. (Rated T)

Earth That Grounds You: When Erik has nightmares, the Daroga will soothe him. (Rated K+)

Encounters: Erik occasionally ambushes the Daroga in search of affection and, ah, other things in his wandering of the Shah's palace. (Rated M)

Flashes of a Lifetime Together: The Daroga, and Erik, and a lifetime of falling together and falling apart. (Rated K+)

If (or When): Nadir keeps a vigil by Erik's sickbed, and wishes that things could be different. (Rated T)

Mamihlapinatapei: Erik, the Daroga, and a chess game charged with the things left unsaid. (Rated K+)

Memories, Whispers, Murmurs: Erik struggles with morphine withdrawal and the Daroga is there to take care of him. (Rated T)

Palmistry: The Daroga studies Erik's palm, and contemplate the life they have had together. (Rated T)

Playing at Love: In the stillness of the night the Daroga contemplates the man sleeping beside him, and wonders why it had to be him. (Rated K+)

Realisation, Understanding, Peace: For as long as Erik can remember caring about such things, he has thought there was a part of him missing. To discover that he is not alone, that there are other people like him, is more than he ever expected. (Asexual Erik, Modern Day AU) (Rated K+)

Tarantism: Erik can't sleep because he can feel the melancholia coming on, so he asked the Persian to dance with him. (Rated K+)

To the Bone: Erik stumbles in the door looking half-drowned. (Rated K+)

Vigil: In Persia, Nadir tends to a gravely injured Erik, and remembers and worries and prays. Erik drifts caught between the worlds of waking and unconsciousness. (Rated T)

Melancholy’s Child (@i-am-melancholys-child)

White Christmas: Nadir visits Erik's home in an effort to not spend Christmas alone. Post-canon modern AU Pharoga. (Rated M)

mendedpixie (@mendedpixie7​)

Beloved: Erik wants to dictate a certain letter to Nadir for him to write. Things per usual, don't go as Erik planned. There's a lot of tears and and a happy end for all. (Rated T)

Shiroimono/ConvenientAlias (@convenientalias)

In a Cozy Flat: Erik wants the daroga to stop meddling. The daroga wants Erik to stop pushing him away. (Rated T)

In the Abode: Sequel to Let Me in or Strike Me Down. In which Erik finally, finally lets the daroga into his house. (Rated T)

Let Me in or Strike Me Down: About the hundredth time the daroga tries to break into his lair, Erik runs out of restraint. The daroga doesn't give a damn. (Rated M)

SimplyElymas

The Question: Reza asks Nadir and Erik where babies come from. Erik spits tea with lemon all over Nadir. Nadir is displeased. (Rated T)

Someone Else: Erik asks why Nadir hasn't married again, Nadir says he's in love with someone disallowed. Erik says the same. (Rated K+)

Temptation of an Evening: A pause in the still Persian nighttime. A pomegranate slips from one man to the other, like a sacrificial offering. (Rated K+)

SpookyMormonHellDream (@spooky-mormon-hell-dream)

Sleep: Mazanderan, 1850. Erik is attacked, his mask ripped from his face. Nadir has never seen the monstrosity underneath - and desperately, a heartsick Erik hopes that he never will, fearing the price he will pay if that terrible fate should ever come to pass. (Rated T)

the daroga

The Conjurer’s Trick: For the Persian, the siren's song reaches back all the way to the Rosy Hours of Mazenderan. (Rated M)

Infidel: Who watches the watchers? The Persian learns something about his quarry. (Rated M)

Vampiric Phantoms

Truths and Weaknesses: In the dark, people admit things they never thought they would. (Rated M)

Wheel of Fish (@wheel-of-fish)

Ghost Resurrected: It finally hit him, days after he watched that dark and rail-thin figure step into a cab bound for the Opera: Erik fully expected to die. (Rated T)

Untitled: The daroga puts his foot down after the chandelier incident. (Tumblr prompt)

[kwhpresents-blog]

The Imperfect Enjoyment

”Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms, I filled with love, and she all over charms; Both equally inspired with eager fire, Melting through kindness, flaming in desire. With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace, She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face. Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightening, played Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed Swift orders that I should prepare to throw The all-dissolving thunderbolt below. My fluttering soul, sprung with the painted kiss, Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss. But whilst her busy hand would guide that part Which should convey my soul up to her heart, In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,  Melt into sperm, and spend at every pore. A touch from any part of her had done't: Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.

Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise, And from her body wipes the clammy joys,  When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er My panting bosom, "Is there then no more?" She cries. "All this to love and rapture's due; Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?"

But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive, To show my wished obedience vainly strive: I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive. Eager desires confound my first intent, Succeeding shame does more success prevent, And rage at last confirms me impotent. Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn, Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more Than fire to ashes could past flames restore. Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,  A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie. This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried, With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed; Which nature still directed with such art That it through every cunt reached every heart —  Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade Woman or man, nor aught its fury stayed: Where'er it pierced, a cunt it found or made — Now languid lies in this unhappy hour, Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower. 

Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame, False to my passion, fatal to my fame, Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove So true to lewdness, so untrue to love? What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore  Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before? When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way, With what officious haste dost thou obey! Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,  But if his king or country claim his aid, The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head; Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed, Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade, But when great Love the onset does command,  Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand. Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most, Through all the town a common fucking-post, On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt As hogs do rub themselves on gates and grunt, May'st thou to ravenous chancres be a prey, Or in consuming weepings waste away; May strangury and stone thy days attend; May'st thou ne'er piss, who did refuse to spend When all my joys did on false thee depend.

  And may ten thousand abler pricks agree   To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.”

by John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester [Maybe my new favorite example of very formal form used on a very informal subject.]

[countmorivond]

His Majesty... Chaz! Down with the Roundheads. Rather... off with the roundheads!

[countmorivond]

"My Light, Thou Art" read by Count MoriVond. Written by John Wilmot

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