A Mock Song

                  I.

    Now Whitehall's in the grave,

    And our head is our slave,

The bright pearl in his close shell of oyster;

    Now the miter is lost,

    The proud Praelates, too, crost,

And all Rome's confin'd to a cloister.

    He, that Tarquin was styl'd,

      Our white land's exil'd,

        Yea, undefil'd;

Not a court ape's left to confute us;

    Then let your voyces rise high,

      As your colours did flye,

        And flour'shing cry:

Long live the brave Oliver-Brutus.

                  II.

    Now the sun is unarm'd,

    And the moon by us charm'd,

All the stars dissolv'd to a jelly;

    Now the thighs of the Crown

    And the arms are lopp'd down,

And the body is all but a belly.

    Let the Commons go on,

      The town is our own,

        We'l rule alone:

For the Knights have yielded their spent-gorge;

    And an order is tane

      With HONY SOIT profane,

        Shout forth amain:

For our Dragon hath vanquish'd the St. George.