The Original Poet-Bro

Do you even write verses, bro?

John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester, by Jacob Huysmans, c. 1665–1670

Late last night I was lying in bed diving into a bizarre rabbit hole of literary history while I should have been sleeping, when I discovered my new favorite poet. And that’s saying something because I don’t even like poetry. But this poet’s whole story is so ridiculously absurd that I love it.

His name is John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester. He died in 1680, reportedly of venereal disease. He made it to the ripe old age of 33. He was a true poet-bro.

Before we get into Wilmot’s story, I just want to point out that he’s pretty famous nowadays among poetry and literary scholars. He gets serious consideration in modern intellectual books and is the subject of highfalutin criticism and critique. This was the case historically as well; Voltaire called Wilmot a “man of genius.”

So, he must’ve written some brilliant poetry, right? Well, let me just start with a brief sample you might care to judge for yourself:

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 the clap,
I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap.

If by chance then I wake, hot-headed and drunk,
What a coil do I make for the loss of my punk!
I storm and I roar, and I fall in a rage.
And missing my…