The Pathetick History of Sir Wilful Wildrake

by Howard Phillips Lovecraft

Dedicated to the Rt. Hon. Rheinhart Kleiner, Gent.

In Elder Days, when ruttish Rips

Were always pardon'd for their Slips;

When CHARLES (as if to set the Pace)

With Doxies swell'd our British Race,

There liv'd a Rake of ancient Name

Whose Sires had known a martial Fame;

But who, indiff'rent to the Sword,

Fought softer Fights, and gayly whor'd.

This Brat, of rampant Squire begot,

Was sure to design for Lecher's Lot:

At Birth he had a roving Eye

That winkt at Wenches passing by,

And ere he could in Speech converse

He got a Bastard on his Nurse.

When ten the Boy was known with Pride

Each Trollop of the Countryside,

And pass'd, so ably did he whore 'em,

The old Jus Trium Librorum !

His Father, liking not to see

So swift a Growth of Peasantry

(Or yet a Rival quite so bold as he),

Ere long the little Satyr sent

To travel on the Continent;

But many a Tale his Tutor told

That prov'd the Stripling still more bold.

He charm'd the easie Gallick Jades,

And Bitches of Italia’s Shades—

God help us all if Years ahead

Our Sons must fight the Troops he bred!

(Myself, I think it downright Treason

To wench abroad in any Season.)

But in due Time young WILDRAKE came

Back to our Isle to vaunt his Fame,

And gain the Prize for our King design

For Merit of a Gallant Kind.

Behold him now at ev'ry Ball

That frets the Peace of Windsor Hall;

A Maccaronie of Renown

With ev'ry Baggage of the Town;

Bold with the Trulls, and quick to boast

Of Vict'ries o'er each reigning Toast,

Nor slow to hint they hath been rash

With Lady Blank , or Countess Dash!

One idle Day a Nymph he knew

Prov'd pleasing to the Royal View,

Whereat our crafty riggish Imp

To serve his Fortune turn'd a Pimp:

The Fray was won — the Maiden blighted—

And WILL, to pay his Virtue, knighted.

(I need but add, the Drab was made

A Duchess, grand in red Brocade.)

Whene'er some pious Fool wou'd snivel

That such damn'd Raking pleas'd the Devil,

Our love-lockt Goat wou'd wink in Scorn

And vow that he for this was born;

For sure, the only Joy he knew

Was of the Cyprian and the Stew,

Whilst he wou'd rather far be dead

Than out of some loose Mopsy's Bed.

Of Husbands WILL Was Much In Awe,

And smil'd the more, the less he saw;

But Cupid oft will craft provide,

So WILDRAKE early learn'd to hide.

Now all went well, till one sad Day

WILL'S Nose beam'd out with redder Ray,

And powder'd Leeches cry'd that sure

He must depart to take the Cure.

Not once but often did they force

The rake-hell Blade to change his Course,

Yet spyte of all the poor Wretch grows

Pain'd, pox'd, and putrid with his Woes.

The years as well their Tribute claim,

They seam his Face and bend his Frame,

Till ere his Mind his State can see,

He finds no Joy in Venerie.

The Ladies flee as he draws near,

And ev'ry Strumpet costs him dear.

And what is worse, each bawdy Fling

No Spark of Pleasure can now bring.

Bred up to live on Lust alone,

A Courtier by Priapus' Throne,

He sees ahead a weary Waste

Whose Bliss he never learn'd to taste.

"Alas!" he whines, “had I but thought

Of what vast Ills by Love are wrought!

Had I but train'd my mind to glimpse

Some Goal above my Whores and Pimps!

Fifty and feeble, I must crave

And ogle vainly to my Grave,

Whilst even then (if Crones err not)

My itching Ghost will haunt the Spot! ”

But one last Joy our WILDRAKE learns,

The while in pox'd old Age he burns;

For tho 'the Flame of Love be low,

In Godliness new Beauties grow.

The Rake, his genial Ardor spent,

Turns pious, proud, and penitent;

Dons sober gray; three Church each Week

To dose, or hear the Parson speak;

Too old to whore, the Rip grows chaste,

And damns the Bliss he once embrac'd.

Resolv'd to wed, he seeks a Maid

Of Age and Chancres unafraid;

An ugly Chit, tho 'young and sound,

And bred on her ancestral Ground;

Nor (save for Errours with a Groom)

Devoid of Dian's virgin Bloom.

With this sweet Nymph the Rake essays

In rustick Peace to end his Days;

Trades Bawdry for a Patriot's Fire,

And turns a stolid country Squire.

Three infant Forms the Household bless,

Entrancing in their Loveliness;

An idiot Girl, a weakling Boy,

And one small Saint, the Mother's Joy,

Whose Groom-like Looks his lover's Sire annoy.

So ends poor WILL, whom Parents praise

For prudish Tongue and virtuous Ways;

First to reprove a lick'rish Air,

And first to stone the erring Fair.

'Tis he that rails with righteous Zest

At Modern Nymphs in Style undress'd

With shrinking Petticoat and naked Breast.

His Merits all the Country fill,

And Heirs adore him for his Will;

No one (aloud) can think with Ease

That Death so good a Man will seize.

Nagg'd, cuckolded by doltish Wife,

The Hypocrite concludes his Life;

Once hot for Cupid’s Pleasures only

He pines — dull, rotten, lewd, and lonely!