Nice one, Nigel. Thank you. He was still a horrible man. He had Dryden beaten up and now he burns in hell.

Oh, John...

Three Johns have I, one righteous, one impure;
Dryden and Wilmot, do I have to choose?
The Third, The Whitworth, is too bloody sure
So I say, sadly: John, John, John - you lose.

Dearest Ann

Rochester briefly fled to Tower Hill, where he impersonated a mountebank "Doctor Bendo". Under this persona, he claimed skill in treating "barrenness" (infertility), and other gynecological disorders. Gilbert Burnet wryly noted that Rochester's practice was "not without success", implying his intercession of himself as surreptitious sperm donor. On occasion, Rochester also assumed the role of the grave and matronly Mrs. Bendo, presumably so that he could inspect young women privately without arousing their husbands' suspicions.

Well I might have been unjust. That is quite funny. His death is also wryly amusing. Syphilis, gonorrhea, or other venereal diseases, combined with the effects of alcoholism. A full house, as it were, and all at 33.

Love a woman? You’re an ass!
’Tis a most insipid passion
To choose out for your happiness
The silliest part of God’s creation.

Let the porter and the groom,
Things designed for dirty slaves,
Drudge in fair Aurelia's womb
To get supplies for age and graves.

Farewell, woman! I Intend
Henceforth every night to sit
With my lewd, well-natured friend,
Drinking to engender wit.

Then give me health, wealth, mirth, and wine,
And, if busy love entrenches,
There's a sweet, soft page of mine
Does the trick worth forty wenches.

I think that is funny. Also illegal. Noble Lords have always been at it. But having people beaten up is not good. I have never done it, though, God knows....

Not you, Athene.

Who said poetry makes nothing happen?

A little mollified, a tad elated,
I take the post above as a retraction
whereby my Johns can all be reinstated.
And now, sit back - Popcorn! Lights! Camera! Action...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nUtwSGSRViE

And the excellent Johnny Depp makes four Johns.

There were long Johns, short Johns, Johns of every size.... another of thoe folk poems, by God

Lines to John the Mod from Joan the Wad

Alas, dear heart, if you manipulate
much further your post number twenty three
you will go blind! Coarse hairs will decorate
your palms! I know you're at it. I can see.

My conduct as an acolyte’s a shame,
But I outdid myself at Mass today.
My solo preparation was the same:
To steal some wine, diluted Beaujolais.

To kick it up, I’ve spiked it with dry gin,
And added vodka once, tequila twice.
Of course, distorting altar wine’s a sin
Only if it’s blessed—then Hell’s the price.

For a change, I mixed the wine with coke
Today, a blend I should have sampled first.
Numbly mumbling Latin, a sotted bloke,
Before Communion I had an addict's thirst.

I prayed for Mass to end and felt sincere
When promising again I’d stick to beer.

Ralph - here in the UK to top onesself means to commit suicide. Reading though the poem it becomes clear that that isn't what you mean but Tessa, like me, would probably assume for some time that the protagonist has drunk himself to death and is speaking from the Great Beyond. A tiny tweak is all it would take.

Thanks Ann! Will "outdid myself" work?