I could love thee till I die,
Would'st thou love me modestly,
And ne'er press, whilst I live,
For more than willingly I would give:
Which should sufficient be to prove
I'd understand the art of love.
I hate the thing is called enjoyment:
Besides it is a dull employment,
It cuts off all that's life and fire
From that which may be termed desire;
Just like the bee whose sting is gone
Converts the owner to a drone.
I love a youth will give me leave
His body in my arms to wreathe;
To press him gently, and to kiss;
To sigh, and look with eyes that wish
For what, if I could once obtain,
I would neglect with flat disdain.
I'd give him liberty to toy
And play with me, and count it joy.
Our freedom should be full complete,
And nothing wanting but the feat.
Let's practice, then, and we shall prove
These are the only sweets of love.
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Avoid the O
From guest Erin Blankenship (contact)
"Enjoyment" in this poem is an orgasm. Wilmot writes this from a woman's perspective, and is saying mostly that orgasm is the "end" or death of the act of sex. What the speaker wants is just foreplay. If she actually has sex she won't be interested any more. He actually calls the act of ejaculation emasculating — for having just proved virility, a man is esentially impotent (at least for a while anyway!)
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