| Suggestive, rather than down right pornographic, this is rather an unusual poem for John Wilmot. It's not full of burning disgust for his lover, or his wished for lover, but is surprisingly gentle. This is a joking, slightly giggly tease from a girl to her older lover who is having a little difficulty. Rather than raging, as in The Imperfect Enjoyment, Wilmot seems to relish the situation.
Once upon a time, a long time ago, I knew this poem off by heart, and would use it to embarass the man I was seeing at the time, who was a lofty dozen years older than myself.
Ancient person, for whom I
All the flattering youths defy,
Long be it ere thou grow old,
Aching, shaking, crazy, cold,
But still continue as thou art,
Ancient person of my heart.
On thy withered lips and dry
Which like barren furrows lie,
Brooding kisses I will pour,
Shall thy youthful heat restore.
Such kind show'rs in autumn fall
And a second spring recall:
Nor from thee will ever part,
Ancient person of my heart.
Thy nobler part, which but to name
In our sex would be counted shame,
By age's frozen grasp possessed
From his ice shall be released,
And, soothed by my reviving hand,
In former warmth and vigour stand.
All a lover's wish can reach
For thy joy my love shall teach,
And for thy pleasure shall improve
All that art can add to love.
Yet still I love thee without art,
Ancient person of my heart.
| 
