From E. E. Cummings, Complete Poems 1904-1962, revised, corrected, and expanded edition, ed. George J. Firmage (New York: Liveright, 1994), p. 632. This poem first appeared in book form in Cummings's XAIPE: Seventy-one Poems (New York: Oxford University Press, 1950), p. 34.

a thrown a

-way It
with some-
thing sil
-very

;bright,&:mys(

a thrown a-
way
X
-mas)ter-

i

-ous wisp A of glo-
ry.pr
-ettily
cl(tr)in(ee)gi-

ng

What difference, if any, would it make if this poem were printed -- as I first encountered it some thirty-four or so years ago, with "a" as it first line and "thrown a" as its second"? Think visually!

From Charles Cotton, Poems, ed. John Buxton, The Muses' Library (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1958), pp. 25-27.

I

Rise, happy Mortalls, from your sleep,
Bright Phospher now begins to peep,
In such apparell as ne're drest
The proudest day-breake of the East:
Death's Sable Curtain 'gins disperse,

And now the blessed morne appeares,
Which has long'd and pray'd for been
Soe many Centuries of yeares,
To defray th' arreare of Sinn.
Now through the joyfull universe
Beames of Mercy and of Love
Shoot forth comfort from above,
And Quires of Angells doe proclaime
The Holy Jesus blessed Name.
Cho[rus]. Rise, happy Mortalls, rise and sing,
Hosanna's to the Heavenly King.
II

Rise Shepheards, leave your flockes, and run,
The Soule's great Shepheard now is come;
O wing your tardy feet, and fly
To greet this Dawning Majesty:
A glorious Starr shines in the East,

To guide you to the Sacred place,
Where the blessed babe of joy,
Wrap't in his Holy Father's grace,
Comes the serpent to destroy,
That lurkes in ev'ry humaine brest.
To Juda's Beth'lem turne your feet,
There you shall Salvation meet;
There, in a homely manger hurl'd,
Lies the Messias of the world.
Cho. Rise Happy Mortalls then and sing
Hosanna's to the Heavenly King.
III

Riding upon the morning's wings,
The joyfull Aire Salvation sings,
Peace upon earth, tow'rds men good will,
Echo's from every vale and hill;
For why the Prince of Peace is come,

The glorious infant, who this morne
By a strange misterious birth
Was of his Virgin Mother borne,
To redeem the seed of Earth
From foule rebellion's heavy Doome.
Travell Magi of the East,
To adore this sacred guest;
And offer up with reverence,
Your gold, your Mirrhe and Frankinsense.
Cho. Rise Happy Mortalls then and sing
Hosanna's to the Heavenly King.
IV

Att th' teeming of this blessed wombe
All Nature is one joy become;
The Fire, the Earth, the Sea, and Ayre,
The great Salvation doe declare;
The Mountaines skipp with joyes excesse,

The ocean's briny billowes swell
O're the surface of their lands,
And at this blesseded Miracle
Floods doe clap their liquid hands,
Joyes inundation to expresse;
Babes spring in the narrow roomes
Of their tender Mothers' wombes,
And all for triumph of the morne
Wherin this Child of bliss is born.
Cho. Rise Happy Mortalls then and sing
Hosanna's to the Heavenly King.
V

Let each religious Soule then rise
To offer his best sacrifice,
And on the wings of pray'r and praise
His gratefull heart to Heav'n raise;
For this, that in a stable lyes,

This poor neglected babe is hee,
Hell and death that must controule,
And speake the blessed Word, Be free
To every true beleiving Soule:
Death has noe sting, nor Hell noe prize
Through his meritts great, whilst wee
Travell to Eternity,
And with the blessed Angells sing
Hosanna's to the Heavenly King.
Cho. Rise then, O rise, and let your voyces
Tell the spheeres your Soule rejoyces.
In Beth'lem this auspitious morne,
The Glorious Sonn of God is borne.
The sonn of Glory, Prince of Peace,
Brings mercy that will never cease,
Meritts that wipe away the sin
Each humaine Soule was forfeit in;
And washing of the fatall staine,
Man to his Maker knitts againe:
Joyne then your gratefull notes, and sing
Hosanna's to the Heavenly King.

---

From Englands Helicon, ed. Hugh Macdonald, The Muses' Library (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1950), pp. 8-9.

As withereth the Primrose by the river,
As fadeth Sommers-sunne from gliding fountaines;
As vanisheth the light blowne bubble ever,
As melteth snow vpon the mossie Mountaines.
So melts, so vanisheth, so fades, so withers,
The Rose, the shine, the bubble and the snow,
Of praise, pompe, glorie, joy (which short life gathers,)
Faire praise, vaine pompe, sweet glory, brittle joy.
The withered Primrose by the mourning river,
The faded Sommers-sunne from weeping fountaines:
The light-blowne bubble, vanished for ever,
The molten snow vpon the naked mountaines,
Are Emblems that the treasures we up-lay,
Soone wither, vanish, fade, and melt away.

For as the snowe, whose lawne did over-spread
Th'ambitious hills, which Giant-like did threat
To pierce the heaven with theyr aspiring head,
Naked and bare doth leave their craggie seate.
When as the bubble, which did emptie flie
The daliance of the undiscerned winde:
On whose calme rowling waves it did relie,
Hath shipwrack made, where it did daliance finde:
And when the Sun-shine which dissolv'd the snow,
Cullourd the bubble with a pleasant varie,
And made the rathe and timely Primrose grow,
Swarth clowdes with-drawne (which longer time doe tarie)


Oh what is praise, pompe, glory, joy, but so
As shine by fountaines, bubbles, flowers or snow?
E. B.

---

From Englands Helicon, ed. Hugh Macdonald, The Muses' Library (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 1950), p. 112.

Loves Queene long wayting for her true-Love,
Slaine by a Boare which he had chased,
Left off her teares, and me embraced,
She kist me sweete, and call'd me new-Love.
With my silver haire she toyed,
In my stayed lookes she joyed.
Boyes (she sayd) breede beauties sorrow:
Olde men cheere it even and morrow.
My face she nam'd the seate of favour,
All my defects her tongue defended,
My shape she prais'd, but most commended
My breath more sweete then Balme in savour.
Be old man with me delighted,
Loue for loue shall be requited.
With her toyes at last she wone me:
Now she coyes that hath vndone me.
Ignoto

---

From Sir Philip Sidney, Selected Poems, ed. Katherine Duncan-Jones, Oxford Paperback English Texts (1973; rpt. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982), p. 137.

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance,
Guided so well, that I obtained the prize,
Both by the judgement of the English eyes
And of some sent from that sweet enemy, France;
Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance;
Town-folks my strength; a daintier judge applies
His praise to sleight, which from good use doth rise;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance;
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them, who do excel in this,
Think nature me a man of arms did make.
How far they shoot awry! The true cause is,
Stella looked on, and from her heavenly face,
Sent forth the beams, which made so fair my race.

---

From John Wilmot, Earl of Rochester, The Complete Works, ed. Frank H. Ellis (New York: Penguin, 1994), pp. 28-29.

Naked she lay, clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with Love, and she all over charms,
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire;
With arms, legs, lips, close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue (Love's lesser lightning) played
Within my mouth and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with a pointed kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss,
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part,
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done't,
Her hand, her foot, her very look's a cunt.
Smiling, she chides in a kind, murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, 'Is there then no more?'
She cries, 'All this to love and rapture's due,
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?'
But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive,
I sigh, alas, and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of Love, whose piercing point oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids has dyed,
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart;
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelesly invade
Woman or boy, nor ought its fury stayed;
Where'er it pierced, a cunt it found or made,
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.
Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
By what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to Love?
What oyster, cinder, beggar, common whore
Didst thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey?
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
That scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his king or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev'n so thy brutal valor is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But if great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town the common fucking post
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt,
As hogs on gates do rub themselves and grunt,
May'st thou to rav'nous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away.
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May'st thou ne'er piss who didst refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.

Compare Rochester's poem with the version by Sir George Etherege, also called "The Imperfect Enjoyment," which can be found in The Poems of Sir George Etherege, ed. James Thorpe (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1963), pp. 7-8. Charles Beys, "La Iovissance Imparfaite. Caprice" (in Beys' Les ouevres poetiques [Paris, 1652]) is an immediate source for Etherege and for Rochester; but see, too, Ovid, Amores, III.vii, and Petronius, Satyricon, sections 128-140. Aphra Behn's "The Disappointment" is sufficient indication that the genre was not used only by male poets. You can find her text by clicking on Chadwyck-Healey's Master Index and searching author "Behn" and title keyword "disappointment" at Literature Online.