"The Debauchee" by John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester
 

I rise at eleven, I dine about two,
I get drunk before sev'n; and the next thing I do,
I send for my whore, when for fear of a clap,
I spend in her hand, and I spew in her lap;
Then we quarrel and scold, 'till I fall fast asleep,
When the bitch, growing bold, to my pocket does creep;
Then slyly she leaves me, and, to revenge the affront,
At once she bereaves me of money and cunt.

If by chance then I wake, hotheaded 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 whore, I bugger my page.

Then, crop-sick all morning, I rail at my men,
And in bed I lie yawning 'till eleven again.