God Bless Our Good And Gracious King

God bless our good and gracious kind,
Whose promise none relies on,
Who never said a foolish thing,
Nor ever did a wise one.

John Wilmot

John Wilmot, 2nd Earl of Rochester, was an English poet and courtier of King Charles II's Restoration court. Renowned for his rakish lifestyle and his satirical and bawdy verses, Wilmot penned some of the most controversial poetry of his time. Despite his short life, his work significantly influenced English literature, especially the libertine and Restoration comedy genres. His eloquence combined with a wild lifestyle, making him a quintessential figure of Restoration England.

John Wilmot

I Cannot Change, As Others Do

John Wilmot, Simple Poetry

A Ramble In St. James's Park

John Wilmot, Simple Poetry

The Mistress

John Wilmot, Simple Poetry

The Dying Lover

John Wilmot, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Epitaph On Charles II

Here lies a great and mighty King,
Whose promise none relied on;
He never said a foolish thing,
Nor ever did a wise one.

John Wilmot

God save the King

GOD SAVE OUR GRACIOUS KING. (It seems
The Church is full of bygone dreams.)

LONG LIVE OUR NOBLE KING. (My own,
'Tis hard to stand here all alone.)

GOD SAVE THE KING. (But, sweetheart, you
Were always brave to dare and do.)

SEND HIM VICTORIOUS. (For then,
My darling will come home again!)

HAPPY AND GLORIOUS ('Twill be
Like Heaven to him -- and what to me?)

LONG TO REIGN OVER US. (My dear!
And we'd been wedded one short year!)

GOD SAVE OUR KING. (And Lord, I pray
Keep MY King safe this very day.)

Forgive us, thou -- great England's kingly King
That thus do women National Anthems sing.

Fay Inchfawn

Which Is Which

"God bless the King! God bless the faith's defender!
God bless, no harm in blessing, the Pretender.
But who pretender is, and who is king,
God bless us all, that's quite another thing."

John Byrom

On The Monument Of The Marquis Of Winchester.[1]

He who in impious times undaunted stood,
And 'midst rebellion durst be just and good;
Whose arms asserted, and whose sufferings more
Confirm'd the cause for which he sought before,
Rests here, rewarded by an heavenly prince,
For what his earthly could not recompense.
Pray, reader, that such times no more appear:
Or, if they happen, learn true honour here.
Ask of this age's faith and loyalty,
Which, to preserve them, Heaven confined in thee.
Few subjects could a king like thine deserve;
And fewer such a king so well could serve.
Blest king, blest subject, whose exalted state
By sufferings rose, and gave the law to fate!
Such souls are rare, but mighty patterns given
To earth, and meant for ornaments to heaven.

John Dryden

Grace And Providence.

Almighty King! whose wondrous hand
Supports the weight of sea and land,
Whose grace is such a boundless store,
No heart shall break that sighs for more.


Thy providence supplies my food,
And tis thy blessing makes it good;
My soul is nourishd by thy word,
Let soul and body praise the Lord.


My streams of outward comfort came
From him who built this earthly frame;
Whateer I want his bounty gives,
By whom my soul for ever lives.


Either his hand preserves from pain,
Or, if I feel it, heals again;
From Satans malice shields my breast,
Or overrules it for the best.


Forgive the song that falls so low
Beneath the gratitude I owe!
It means thy praise, however poor;
An angels song can do no more.

William Cowper

A Satyre On Charles II

In th' isle of Britain, long since famous grown
For breeding the best cunts in Christendom,
There reigns, and oh! long may he reign and thrive,
The easiest King and best bred man alive.
Him no ambition moves to get reknown
Like the French fool, that wanders up and down
Starving his people, hazarding his crown.
Peace is his aim, his gentleness is such,
And love he loves, for he loves f*cking much.
Nor are his high desires above his strength:
His scepter and his prick are of a length;
And she may sway the one who plays with th' other,
And make him little wiser than his brother.
Poor Prince! thy prick, like thy buffoons at court,
Will govern thee because it makes thee sport.
'Tis sure the sauciest prick that e'er did swive,
The proudest, peremptoriest prick alive...

John Wilmot