February 17, 2013
A rather bawdy poem, attributed to Lord Rochester:
In a dark, silent, shady Grove,
Fit for the Delights of Love,
As on Corinna's Breast I panting lay,
My right Hand playing with Et Caetera,
A thousand Words and am'rous Kisses,
Prepar'd us both for more substantial Blisses;
And thus the hasty Moments slip away.
Lost in the Transport of Et Caetera.
She blush'd to see her Innocence betray'd,
And the small Opposition she had made;
Yet hugg'd me close, and, with a Sigh, did say,
Once more, my Dear, once more, Et Caetera.
But Oh! the Power to please this Nymph, was past,
Too violent a Flame can never last;
So we remitted to another Day,
The Prosecution of Et Caetera.