Alternative Title: Saliva Is An Inferior Anal Lube

There’s a long poem, fourteen or fifteen hundred lines, attributed to Lord Byron; the attribution is thought to be both false and scurrilous. The poem, called Don Leon, has apparently existed in several versions; the one linked from Wikipedia matches Ashbee’s description as being “entirely in defence of sodomy” but it lacks the lines Ashbee thought worth quoting, in which are supposedly explained the reason why Byron was estranged from his wife. Long story short, supposedly, she was great with child, he asked nicely, she didn’t say no, he went up the butt, she decided he was a monstrous pervert. Only, it sounds better in the original:

That time it was, as we in parlance wiled
Away the hours, my wife was big with child.
Her waist, which looked so taper when a maid
Like some swol’n butt its bellying orb displayed,
And Love, chagrined, beheld his favourite cell
From mounds opposing scarce accessible.
“Look, Bell,” I cried; “yon moon, which just now rose
will be the ninth; and your parturient throes
May soon Lucioa’s dainty hand require
To make a nurse of thee, of me a sire.
I burn to press thee, but I fear to try.
Lest like an incubus my weight should lie;
Lest, from the close encounter we should doom
Thy quickening foetus to an early tomb.
Thy size repels me, whilst thy charms invite;
Then, say, how celebrate the marriage rite?
Learn’d Galen, Celsus, and Hippocrates,
Have held it good, in knotty points like these,
Lest mischief from too rude assaults should come,
To copulate ex more pecudum.
What sayst thou, dearest ? Do not cry me nay;
We cannot err where science shows the way.”
She answered not; but silence gave consent,
And by that threshold boldly in I went.

So clever statesmen, who concoct by stealth
Some weighty measures for the comonwealth,
All comers by the usual door refuse,
And let the favoured few the back stairs use.

Who that has seen a woman wavering lie
Betwixt her shame and curiosity,
Knowing her sex’s failing, will not deem,
That in the balance shame would kick the beam?
Ah, fatal hour, that saw my prayer succeed,
And my fond bride enact the Ganymede.
Quick from my mouth some bland saliva spread
The ingress smoothed to her new maidenhead,
The Thespian God his rosy pinions beat,
And laughed to see his victory complete.
‘Tis true, that from her lips some murmurs fell—
In joy or anger, ’tis too late to tell;
But this I swear, that not a single sign
Proved that her pleasure did not equal mine,
Ah, fatal hour! for thence my sorrows date:
Thence sprung the source of her undying hate.
Fiends from her breast the sacred secret wrung,
Then called me monster; and, with evil tongue,
Mysterious tales of false Satanic art
Devised, and forced us evermore to part.

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